


On This Quest I´ll Keep You Whole

by Heyerette



Series: To Be Whole [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courting on the Road, Dwarf Courting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hobbit Courting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Or that Somebody Else finds It, Romance, Thorin Is Courting-Challenged, Timeline What Timeline, We will assume Aragorn´s ancestor took care of a Certain Ring, When I Say Fluff It Means A Lot Of Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a hobbit and a Baggins and absolutely, definitely uninterested when it came to adventures of any sort was all very well and proper but no-one would be touching the King´s hair if Bilbo could prevent it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On an Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> I had no real intention of posting yet another fic this weekend but then things happened and I had the first chapter finished much quicker than I thought it would take and patience has never been my forte so here, have the beginning of the actual courtship. I have no real idea what I am doing here but as long as you are alright with that so will I be. ;)
> 
> Thank you to all of you who left comments and kudos on the first part of the series, you´re all lovely and I would feed you cookies if that would not earn me Dwalin´s wrath. Also thank you for all the bookmarks! 
> 
> I hope this meets your expectations.

Splendid.

This was just really - 

Splendid.

If they would just hold him up a little higher he might even be able to enjoy the view of the ruined farm from above! Once he had dealt with this vertigo business. But they seemed to be more interested in wider than higher. And generally, he would find himself in agreement with them only he would much rather apply that preference to the roundness of bellies and hips than the stretching of any limbs. The process that led to them was usually much more pleasurable.

Especially if they happened to be his own.

Courting.

Really.

Well, if that was _courting_ he was going to have to have some serious words with his suitor. 

A lot of them.

That was, if he made it out of this with all his arms and legs and everything still attached. 

He sincerely hoped they were not interested in any culinary experiments and would not decide to give the cooking and devouring of tongues a try.

He still needed his.

~ ~ ~ ~

When he had finally caught up with the dwarves, out of breath and waving the contract about wildly, he had met with shocked, surprised, beaming and relieved expressions, depending on which dwarf one wished to focus on (the heirs had very much looked as if they would have very much liked to cuddle up to him again – possible some slobbering around the cheeks region would have been involved, too! - and Bilbo had, quickly and precautionally - his instinct of self-preservation having rapidly sharpened when first exposed to those two, thank you - stepped up to Balin, who had taken the long roll of parchment and had made a little show of inspecting it for all things order).

And then - 

Then there had been - 

The king.

Thorin.

Seated on his pony, with his long mane and in his long fur coat; all majesty and power in his bearing, no immediate emotion – good or bad - visible on his stern, noble countenance.

The hobbit´s shoulders had slumped a little. Well, what did he expect. He had practically shooed them all out of his door – without breakfast! - and had moreover rejected the dwarf´s advances. Interest. Flirting. Courting. _Eru_ \- Besides, he had not come for - _that_. At all. Not. Nope. Certainly not. He was the burglar. Hired to steal from a dragon. Nothing more. Or less. Yes. Thank you. And - 

He caught the king´s gaze.

Oh. 

Well.

That was quite - 

Thorin was looking at him as if he -

Well.

Good thing he was not edible.

And he was not blushing. At all. In the slightest. It was just the wind. Which was – not that cold, really, yes, but - 

He quickly made certain that he was looking elsewhere. 

So. 

There he was.

Official burglar to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.

All written and signed on paper and all that.

So.

Right.

Shouldn´t they set - 

You know …. get going?

To the mountain? Not that he was in any particular hurry to make the mighty Smaug´s acquaintance but it looked like rain and he´d rather not start this adventure off getting soaked to his bones and very likely ending up with a nasty bout of a cold and he had not thought to bring an extra blanket for warmth and had quite forgotten his handkerchief, come to think of it, and -

“Get him a pony.”

And -

_What?_

“What - _no!_ No, no, no; there is really no need to -” Pony? What should he be doing with a _pony_?! He was very much able to walk, being a hobbit and all that. Thank you very much. He had taken walking holidays, even! No need to put him onto one of those - “Really. Thank you, but I´ll – _arrrggghhhh!_ -” 

Those - 

Those -

See if he´ll make them any cupcakes _now_!

And no apple anything for their uncle.

Ever.

Especially not after that smirk!

Bilbo would not even dignify _that_ with -

Oh _Eru_ -

That thing – pony - was _moving_. 

The hobbit found himself clutching at the reins.

Tightly.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Burglar.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Uhm... good evening?”

Because really, what did you say to a dwarf that suddenly plops down next to you and calmly and slowly begins to take care of his battleaxe? Rather lovingly, too! It was an _axe_ , wasn´t it? Not an old, battered, beloved book; the delicate pages of which being in need of special, meticulous, tender care. Not a … love token (or so he sincerely hoped because, well, that would be just weird, wouldn´t it?). Not even one of those shiny gems the dwarves were so fond of. And also not anything in any way edible which had to be prepared for the dinner the hobbit would be very much in favour of partaking of rather sooner than later, thank you very much. 

Really.

He should have insisted on having a Feed The Hobbit clause put into the contract, before signing it. 

So. 

Right.

The dwarf probably wanted something. 

Seeing that he had sought him out in that little spot he had found himself, close enough to the fire to benefit from its warmth but far enough from the ongoing physical bout the two younger Durins had engaged in and which goal appeared to be to bash the head of the other into the muddy ground – and it _had_ rained, eventually! - as often as possible while engaging into a weird sort of a dance at the same time; arms and limbs grabbing and pulling and poking and - And they had called out to him to join them. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly. And Bilbo Baggins was really not enough of a Took to deliberately open himself up to what could only be described as Supreme Danger. No, thank you.

And that something wasn´t tea, hopefully. 

He wasn´t against preparing another cup for the bald warrior as such - it was a little endearing how that curt, big bulk of a dwarf had a passion for his own favourite fruit blend – but this _wilderness_ wasn´t quite the place for a tea party and … 

He hadn´t brought any leaves. 

And he did not wish to be responsible for the breaking of any hearts. Tea was a serious matter, after all. And an angry, heartbroken Dwalin might just be - 

“Ya signed.”

Oh, that! Well, yes. Clearly. Or he would not be sitting next to the dwarf, would he?

“Yes.”

Dwalin grunted, then raised his axe to inspect it from side to side. Apparently, he was not quite satisfied with what he saw. Or so the renewed attention it received suggested. Really, it looked quite sharp and ready enough to a hobbit! In fact - 

“Ya aren´t going to hurt him.”

“Well, of course not, I -” _Wait._ Now, really -”Excuse me!” The hobbit had scrambled to his furry feet, not at all enamoured with the implication. _That_ was nobody´s business! Not that there _was_ any business – the dwarf had not even spoken a word to him yet! - but if there _were_ any business he´d appreciate it if - “I am _not_ \- now, look, Mister Dwalin!” He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I understand, really, I do, but that´s – that´s – private. Personal. Not that there is anything to be private about but even so, I´d appreciate it if it could be kept _private_. So. Thank you. And – and I´ll go and help Bombur with dinner now. So - excuse me.”

The flushed hobbit´s attempt at a dignified retreat was prevented by the presence of a very solid form at his back. Which he collided with. Into. Having taken a determined step backwards.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Master Baggins."

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was not pleased.

Not pleased that he had not yet spoken to the hobbit.

Not pleased that the hobbit had not made any effort to approach him.

Not pleased that while the hobbit had made the decision to become the company´s burglar after all and had joined the quest, he evidently did not consider himself in any way bound to the king. He had hoped - 

It had taken all his self-control to leave the hobbit behind in his cosy, warm hobbit hole with his soft bed and his many books and maps and to not force his way into the hobbit´s bedchamber once more and throw himself at the hobbit´s adorably large feet and to not _beg_ him to -

But the hobbit had made his choice, he had obviously not felt the _pull_ as the king had and Thorin, against every dwarven instinct and possessive fibre in his very being, had hardened himself against the rejection and had resolved to respect the smaller creature´s decision. Disinterest. Willingness to ignore the attraction that was so clearly between them for the sake of - 

The memory of that one stolen kiss, the feel of that soft body beneath him - 

_Mahal._

He was used to solitude. Loss. Deprivation. Loneliness. He had concentrated all his thoughts and efforts after the dragon´s attack on his people; striving to assure that the wandering, homeless, starving dwarves of Erebor could call a place their own again; feed and clothe themselves and their children, regain security and a measurement of contentedness.

Thorin had accepted that his duty lay with his kingdom. His people. He had never found himself resenting the truth of it as he had never experienced the stirring of the heart; had long given up any secret hope he might have kept to himself of finding the one who would lighten the darkness in his days, ease his weariness, look at him and see _Thorin_ and not the Prince. Or the King. He _had_ been the prince, had now been the _king_ for the majority of his life and while he had sought out companionship and the occasional offer of relief, the number of those encounters had been small and had become practically non-existent at the time he had met the wizard in Bree. 

All of which meant he had not expected -

The hobbit.

Halfling.

Burglar.

Master Baggins.

_Bilbo._

Bilbo who had looked at him in befuddled consternation, had protested, scolded, huffed, waved his little hands around, made him drink tea and eat obscure hard bread -fingers, offered to braid his hair - _touched_ him - 

And was now sitting within a safe distance of the fire, talking to Dwalin.

Which did nothing to cool the king´s temper; jealousy having instantly welled up within his breast at the sight of his One willing to tolerate the presence of others when he had apparently nothing to say to him.

Or did the hobbit expect _him_ to seek him out? 

The king frowned.

He had – to Thorin´s own cost – not known about the most common dwarven courting customs; perhaps some sort of hobbit idiosyncrasy required for the king to take the first step? 

Cold, blue eyes remained fixed on the strange pair.

Until the dwarf abruptly stood and the cracking of twigs and the crunching of leaves could be clearly heard among the nightly sounds of nature.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Uhm … you said you needed to speak to me? Your majesty.”

The scowl on the king´s face deepened.

“It´s Thorin.”

Bilbo resisted the urge to huff. Really - _must_ they go through this again? His memory was under quite admirable control, thank you very much.

“Yes, I know that, thank you, but given the circumstances -”

“ _What_ circumstances?”

The king had stiffened; thick arms, which were covered by bracers and the sleeves of a fur lined coat, folding at his chest; his expression one of supreme haughtiness.

The hobbit did not know, of course, that various emotions were raging in the dwarf king´s breast; that he was shielding himself from the coming blow, bracing himself in expectation of renewed rejection, when all he wished to do was to crush the small being to his chest and lose himself in his warmth and softness. 

To the hobbit it signalled that the dwarf had chosen to forget the Little Episode in his smial, possibly regretting it, which was good, of course, because it would all be horribly distracting and – and confusing and there would be a severe lack of privacy involved, not to mention the cultural differences and the fact that he was a hobbit dealing with a dwarf and a king at that and of course he would not find himself courting the dwarf – being courted _by_ the dwarf – but if it had all just been a matter of perceived obligation and making the best of an unfortunate situation, really, Bilbo would have quite liked to have been informed of it _before_ rushing out of his home and chasing after a bunch of dwarves he was quite positive would not know how to look after their ponies – much less themselves! -, intending to prevent their stupidly handsome, irritating king from offering himself up as dragon fare because of any possibly hurt feel-

He was a stupid hobbit.

A very, very stupid hobbit.

It would serve him right if Smaug The Terrible chose to have him for a snack first, if only to spare him further embarrassment.

Yes, and he would go back and have a few words with _Dwalin_ because clearly, _hurting_ anyone in this non-existent courtship quite clearly did not come into it! Thank you.

And he would never make the deluded dwarf any tea again! In fact - 

“Halfling.”

And now he had forgotten to explain himself to the dwarf. 

Oh dear.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that now – and had he not insisted that there was not any _that_ just mere moments ago? - so - 

A small, round chin went up defiantly.

“I am the burglar, your majesty. I signed a contract and am now in your majesty´s employ. It therefore behoves me to treat your majesty with the to be expected respect and I will be quite -”

\- surprised to find himself pressed flush against the hard, cold surface of a rock.

Uhm -

~ ~ ~ ~

“You try my patience, burglar”, the king growled as he lowered his head to catch the blinking hobbit´s lips in a demanding, silencing kiss.

~ ~ ~ ~

Kissing Bilbo was -

Everything.

It was sweetness and it was passion; it was hunger and thirst, it was drowning and breathing in air; it was finding a vein of mithril in the deepest, darkest part of a mountain and holding the greatest treasure in one´s hand; it was - 

Rightness.

Wholeness.

Home.

Kissing the hobbit Thorin was tempted as he had never been tempted before to forget all about the quest, the dragon, the throne, the gold, the crown...

He had everything as long as he had the hobbit in his arms. Close to his heart.

The hobbit that was - 

Pushing at him; small fists having come up to press against the king´s chest.

Thorin sighed deeply, reluctantly drawing back from the soft, tempting mouth; leaving his eyes closed so as to not meet with the outrage in those speaking eyes just a moment longer.

When he did eventually open them, he was surprised by what he faced.

It was not outrage.

Nor distress.

Nor confusion, even.

What he met with was - 

Irritation.

Rather prominent, unmistakable _irritation_.

Irritation that made the hobbit´s brows draw together, entirely too kissable lips pursed.

And _Mahal_ , the king would like nothing better than to claim them again. Which he was sorely and selfishly bent on doing, leaning in so as to - 

“Are we courting?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin blinked.

“Courting.”

“Yes. Courting. That thing that apparently comes with hair _braiding_ and hair _touching_ and I´d assume quite an incomprehensible number of other silly rituals. Its intent being eventual marriage. Courting. Are we?”

“I -”

“Because if we _are_ I would quite like to be informed of the fact! And if we are _not_ I would prefer to be informed of that, too. If your majesty pleases. And yes -” The very peeved hobbit continued mercilessly, “- your name is _Thorin_. Please don´t make me go through _that_ again. Or at least not before I´ve had my dinner. Which I really, really hope will be quite soon. So?”

The king frowned, trying to make sense of the abrupt change in atmosphere in his still somewhat pleasure-hazed mind. One moment the hobbit – his hobbit – _Bilbo_ – had returned his kiss, the other his arms found themselves decidedly hobbit-less and Thorin was being interrogated on matters that were entirely too complicated for the dwarf to attend to at that precise moment.

But apparently, he needed to attend to them at just that precise moment, or so the exasperated huff that preceded his One´s intention of removing himself from his vicinity after a prolonged silence suggested.

A hand shot out.

“Wait.”

~ ~ ~ ~

That –

That - 

_Dwarf!_

Honestly.

If they were still in Bag End he would have no scruple in sending the dwarf to the nearest corner and telling him to stay there and think about what he had done. Well, yes, that those corners did not strictly exist, given his hobbit hole was, on the whole, quite a round hole, as it were, might be a tad of a problem but the hobbit would be very happy to work around that. He could just as well send the stupid creature to his room and - 

And there went his mind again. Which had taken quite a turn towards frivolity since he had first become acquainted with _dwarves_. He shuddered to think what would happen to it now that he found himself on the quest. With all those … _dwarves_. He was doomed! Clearly. And so was his poor mind. Clearly. Only it had already taken leave of its senses. Very clearly. Because if it had not long done so Bilbo would not currently find himself where he had already found himself back in his lovely, little smial, which was having been kissed nearly senseless by an obviously unhinged member of that idiotic species! And he was definitely not going to think about how wonderful it had felt to have those hands on his person again and how an unprecedented number of butterflies seemed to have temporarily taken up residence in his belly; no, thank you! 

He might have to murder the dwarf.

Smaug could say whatever the dragon should wish to say to that but surely having the contents of one´s already severely befuddled mind – he had gone on a _bloody_ adventure! - constantly rearranged counted as much more grievous an offence than a mere attempt at ejecting an overgrown lizard from a mountain; lonely or otherwise. 

And now - 

_Now -_

The stupidly lovely dwarf was gazing at him as if he had grown another head! Or sprouted a beard, at the very least.

Well.

The hobbit was going to lay down the ground rules. 

Of this relationship.

Courtship.

Any ship.

As it were.

If he was going to be kissed at any given moment of the day – and the hobbit was not against _that_ part of the journey. Entirely. The dwarf _did_ know what he was doing, after all. And hobbits were creatures of comfort. And pleasure. And – _Eru_ , his mind really had taken leave of its senses. He would have to take a cleansing holiday before returning to the Shire or his neighbours would be scandalised! Once they got over the shock of Bilbo Baggins having set off on an adventure to begin with. - 

He did not care to be a mere distraction. 

He wanted - 

More.

He thought.

Possibly.

Likely.

It was just - 

His respectable Baggins side firmly reminded him that he had known the dwarf but a mere three days. Which, even to a confirmed bachelor whom less well-meaning persons might deem desperate enough to take a chance of an offer when he was presented with it, was a Very Short Time. His decidedly less respectable Took-ish side ventured to put before him that short acquaintance or not, his attraction to the dwarf had been instant and he had liked him well enough to nurture, worry and _pet_ him so really, what was the hobbit even moaning about. 

Slow. Maybe.

And with proper courting. Definitely.

And the dwarf had better go along with it or there would be no further kissing involved.

King or not.

Oh _Eru!_

Thorin was a king.

Bilbo Baggins; proper, respectable, confirmed bachelor hobbit was considering being courted by a _king_.

Right.

So.

Uhm - 

Or was he already being courted by the king?

He supposed he had better ask.

To have – clarity. You know.

To not confuse his purpose on this quest. And all that.

And really, the dwarf had a serious communication problem to begin with! And no proper notion of how a _courtship_ should be approached, as they had previously learned back in Hobbiton. 

So - 

_“Are we courting?”_

~ ~ ~ ~

“Stay. Please. Bilbo, I -”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin congratulated himself on his presence of mind that was convincing the hobbit to have their _talk_ away from the camp. And the dwarves in it.

He could not have tolerated the knowing smiles from Balin. Nor the crude signs from Dwalin. And as for the cackles of his nephews - 

He still had need of his heirs.

If he did not wish for Dain to take over his mountain.

It was lowering enough that any attempt he had so far made at claiming the hobbit for his own had been very much of a ...

Disaster.

Dis would join in her sons´ cackling. 

And then cuff him on the back of his head.

He had to let the hobbit know how essential his presence was on this quest. At the king´s side.

How he -

He had never been good with words. Feelings – emotions – were something he had learned to repress. They were of no use on a battlefield, they did not bring food on his people´s tables, they did not serve any other purpose than distracting from what needed to be done and what use were emotions when you were clearly destined to spend your life with no-one at your side?

Oh, he _did_ possess _some_ feelings.

Anger.

Rage.

Thorin did not forgive.

He did not forget.

And any more tender emotions that he harboured secreted within his cold heart were concentrated solely on his sister and her sons. He loved them fiercely, even if that love was firmly hidden under a stern, detached mask.

And then a round, green door opened to him and - 

Thorin let his thumb brush over the knuckles of a small hand.

“I would court you, Master Baggins. If you will allow me.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Well.

Thorin certainly had an interesting idea of what courting entailed.

Or so Bilbo thought.

Finding himself dangling about.

Above ground.

Courtesy of a troll.


	2. Trolling with the Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo only wanted to feed the boys. And maybe rescue some ponies. 
> 
> Or the one in which Thorin begins to realise that shouting at the one you mean to make your life´s companion may perhaps not be the most enterprising of ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You lovely, lovely people, you!
> 
> Thank you for all your feedback, the kudos and bookmarks! 
> 
> I should, perhaps, warn you that I will be fiddling with canon and do quite a bit of tweaking. Well, if the whole "Thorin is the first to arrive and almost gobbles Bilbo up upon sight"- premise didn´t tell you that from the start. You can trust me. You can. No Durins shall be harmed during the course of this story. Physically, that is. Or not more than necessary. I will make no promises for the state of Thorin´s lovely mind though. He does this whole emotionally constipated thingy so well! ;)

“ _What_ were you doing?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you, Bilbo.

I am pleased you are unharmed, Bilbo.

My sincere gratitude for assuring that we were not eaten by trolls, Bilbo.

And our ponies.

All of these were utterances the hobbit would have been very happy to accept. 

Or a hug, alternatively. 

A kiss, even.

He would have very much liked a kiss.

He would have _deserved_ a kiss.

What he was not at all happy to accept was the snarl in the king´s voice, nor the clear implication that _he_ had been to blame for the ludicrous situation the company had found itself in but moments earlier; his personal high point having been that special snowflake of a troll mistaking him for a string puppet. His arms might never recover.

And the nearly bruising grip on them was certainly not assisting with the matter.

Really.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had merely taken the boys their dinner.

Or that he been the plan.

Their kingly uncle had eventually snapped and had ruthlessly put them on pony-guarding duty. Which would very likely have taken place without any minding of the state of their bellies but the hobbit; stupid, misguided, impressionable being that he was; had put his foot down and had informed his irritable suitor that he would not be standing for any starving of the young merely because his majesty was in one of his moods! 

The camp had gone suddenly silent, various mouths gaping and some pairs of eyes darting between leader and burglar. Except for a certain tattooed warrior, who continued to calmly brush off the mud from his leg bracers, seemingly unperturbed by this attack on his king´s honour. Which had resulted in even more gaping.

Honestly.

You´d think the dwarves had been made from fish rather than from any stone they so proudly laid claim to.

The one who had _not_ been gaping had been the king. The _king_ \- 

Had taken to grumbling.

Once he had stopped staring at the hobbit in what could only be described as mute astonishment.

It had been quite endearing, really.

Sweet, even.

But Bilbo had known better than to further ruffle the kingly feathers.

So he had let the dwarf growl and mumble to himself about insolent, cheeky hobbits and had wandered off to deliver the bowls of hot stew to the princes.

And to pinch their respective ears for all the teasing he had been subjected to that day in the manner of “ _But flowers would really suit uncle´s hair, Bilbo!_ ”, “ _Excuse me; young, easily traumatised, impressionable dwarf coming through!_ ” (Well nobody had _told_ them to spy on his _conversation_ with the king. And especially not behind any bushes. Thank you.) and all the _Uncle Boggins!_ -ing.

Except – it had not been any ears that been in any danger. 

As such.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Lost them.”

“Uhm – yes, but you see, Mister Boggins -”

“You lost them. The ponies.”

“No! Yes – I mean, not _all_ of them; just the two and -”

Bilbo felt a strong inclination to bury his face in his hands. Or dig himself a hole. That would be happy to swallow him up. Or something equally self-preserving.

“How do you even _lose_ a _pony_?!” 

“I don´t know”, the younger dwarf, having briefly pondered the question, turned to his brother, an expression of mild interest on his almost beardless face. “Fili, how does one _lose_ a _pony_?”

Who did not appear to be even remotely more learned on the subject than his kin.

“I – uhm -”

Or perhaps death by self-skewering? That branch over there looked as if it would be quite capable of doing the job.

But then there would be no more - 

And he was just getting used to the dwarf doing that thing - 

Right.

Best to deal with one idiosyncrasy at a time. 

“I really don´t _believe_ you two!”, the hobbit exclaimed with all the respectable hobbit exasperation he was capable of. “Next time I will just keep your dinner for myself, see if – no, _don´t_ give me that look, I am _not_ interested in your pouting, thank you very much! And not in yours either, Fili!”, he added hastily. Firmly. When he spied the older heir attempting to take up his brother´s favourite pastime. 

Now where could the ponies have gone?

Two of them were missing.

And really – how did something the size of a pony just disappear? And then another? Was there a hole somewhere in the ground he actually _could_ have requested to swallow him up? Could someone not have told him? No, they just left him to his – and that was a light.

Quite clearly, _that_ was a light. Over there. Behind those broken tree stumps and bent over branches.

And those were - 

_Trolls._

Lovely.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You should investigate.”

“Yes -” Wait, what? “ _What?!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Clearly, that boy had a few rocks loose in his head.

“No, he shouldn´t!” And his brother seemed to agree with that assessment. Good. Thank you. Really - 

“Uncle would have our beards if we let him go over there! Remember what he said about keeping him safe at all times and -”

Excuse me?

Keep him - 

“ _Thorin_ told you to keep me _safe_?”

“Huh?” Fili, a little distracted due to the half-whispered, energetic debate he had engaged in with his sibling, turned his head to blink at the hobbit. “Wha – sure he has! You´re his intended!`Course he´s going to see to it that you´re not doing anything foolish. Won´t do to have our burglar perish before we even reach the mountain, will it?”

The grin on the young dwarf´s face diminished as quickly as the friendly pat on the shoulder had clearly not impressed their hobbit.

Fili frowned.

“Bilbo? Are you alright?”

There was a strange expression on the hobbit´s face as he seemed to ponder his answer. Then - 

“Perfectly. If you boys will excuse me now -” He firmly ignored the confused expressions and worried eyes as he made to stroll forward. “I have some trolls to meet.”

~ ~ ~ ~

In hindsight, he may have been a bit hasty, of course. Or have overestimated the trolls´ penchant for making new acquaintances. They certainly lacked the most basic of social skills.

And they strangely did not take kindly to any attempts of pet-rescuing either. Not that the ponies were pets, per se, but Bilbo had grown quite fond of his own Myrtle and was not going to stand by and watch some overgrown, smelly, manner-less lumps nibbling at her and her compatriots for breakfast. Lunch. And dinner. Well, probably only the latter, what with the appetite they enjoyed that put even a hobbit to shame and the time of the day, but he _liked_ Myrtle and if he had to trot to the Lonely Mountain on a hairy creature – the exposure to which gave him such occasional bouts of sneezing! And he hadn´t been able to find his bloody handkerchief before running out of his hole! - he was going to do so on none but _Myrtle_ and those trolls would just have to deal with that fact.

Yes.

Well.

Of course they had caught him.

Eventually.

Even trolls – and the hobbit had rapidly learned that their intelligence did not stretch all too far – could not be _that_ stupid.

But really, had it been necessary to _sneeze_ on him?

He would need to bathe. Somewhere.

He´d ask Thorin whether he knew of any stream nearby. Or a pond, possibly. No. Wait. He´d ask _Dwalin_. Or Balin. And not because he feared that any kingly hands involved in the matter could take funny ideas into their heads if he were to ask their owner; nor any such appendages as belonged to himself, no, thank you, he was quite a respectable hobbit!, but – and surely they were not at such a stage in their courtship that it would be disloyal of him to state so – Thorin - 

Had no sense of direction.

At all.

He would probably just lead the whole company back to the Shire. 

Or in a circle.

Even if he did know of a bathing opportunity nearby.

And get all haughty and kingly when someone should even hint at the possibility.

Bilbo himself had only been the recipient of a glower.

And then had the opportunity to admire the dwarf´s broad, well-defined back when the same had pointedly turned away and had urged his pony forward.

And had let Balin take the lead.

The hobbit had to bite back a smile at the memory.

Or he would have.

Were he not covered in slimy, green, unsavoury troll snot and Yavanna knew what else it was that had come out of the manner-less creature´s nose!

Yes, and it was all _Thorin_ ´s fault!

That dwarf quite took the biscuit.

Telling the others to play watchdog over the hobbit.

He was quite capable of looking after himself, thank you very much.

And his current situation was just a minor glitch.

Fine, more of a major glitch but still - 

“- ferret!”

_Ferret?!_

Now really!

“I am most certainly _not_ a ferret! Do you see any tail? No? Well that should tell you that I am nothing of the sort.”

The hobbit, held up for the troll´s – Bert, wasn´t it? Or it may have been William. Or possibly Tom? - inspection by the lapel of his coat, had crossed his arms defiantly. Ferret. Honestly. Those trolls should take a long, long walk around Middle Earth and acquaint themselves with its resident creatures. If they couldn´t even tell a -

“But there´s fur on ya feet!”

Now _that_ -

“No there isn´t. It´s just _hair_!”

Wait. He was arguing with a troll, wasn´t he? A troll that could crush him in the blink of an eye? Or worse – _eat_ him?

“But that´s what I was sayin´! _Fur_!” 

Clearly, he was. And the troll seemed almost affronted. Maybe he wasn´t used to havin his verdict doubted? That could be it, the hobbit conceded. Seeing he probably had little opportunity to converse with his designated meals. At his own instigation, mind you. Bilbo could almost sympathise – an empty stomach really was quite a nasty, unpleasant thing – except not quite when he made up said designated meal. Did the troll really think a hobbit would fill his rather enormous belly? Oh, but that was the problem, wasn´t it. He had no idea what a hobbit even _was_.

Ugh.

He had never been made for this tutor stuff and - 

“Stop playin´ with tha food, Tom!” Tom, then. “And give ´m a little wash – I won´t have ya nastiness touch me pot!”

Right.

He was, quite possibly, dealing with the most imbecilic trolls that had ever graced the lands of Arda. And his back had begun to hurt. In fact, he would quite like for the troll to put him down and be on his way, thank you.

And then make a run for it and throw himself – quite shamelessly, too, he was sorry, but he was quite past being respectable or proper at that stage! - at a certain high-handed, pigheaded dwarf and hold onto the lapels of his thick, thick coat and bury himself in -

“ - not playin´! Jus´asking the ferret what he _is_!”

 _Eru_ , not this again.

“Look -” Bilbo assembled the last stretches of his affronted dignity and eyed the troll – Tom – with what he could only hope to be disinterested interest. “I am not a ferret or a toy or – anything of interest, really. Just a mere burgl – hobbit. And I would really be very much obliged to you if you would just let me down and be on my really quite uninteresting hobbit-y way!”

“A burglhobbit?” Tom had scrunched up his nose in confusion. Or as much as it was possible with the really quite impressive growth on his face. It was bigger than Bilbo´s favourite cooking pot! “What´s a burgl-”

_"Release him!”_

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo, on the whole not unhappy to see Kili, would have nevertheless liked to point out to the clearly suicidal dwarf that if he _had_ a death wish, being burnt to a crisp while defending his hearth and home, as it were, would be a decidedly more dignified, not to mention heroic – which he had somewhat of an inkling of being a matter of Great Importance To A Dwarf Of Durin´s Line - way to go than being swallowed hole by a linguistically, temperamentally and intelligence-challenged _troll_.

~ ~ ~ ~

_”What were you doing?”_

~ ~ ~ ~

Fear.

Overwhelming, paralysing, mind-numbing - 

Fear.

Fear as he had never felt fear before.

He had feared for his people.

His father.

For Frerin.

He feared for his sister-sons every single moment he omitted to suppress his growing guilt that had begun to nag at him for taking them on his quest.

The fear he felt upon seeing the hobbit held up by his limbs - 

The fear that had struck him into the deepest recesses of his heart.

If he should have lost -

It was that fear that had led to the king lashing out at the company´s burglar once they had all been freed from their confinement in the sacks the by then congealed trolls had seen fit to use in order to prevent their wriggling, squirming, slashing and shouting soon-to-be snacks from fleeing before they could be roasted on a makeshift grill.

No thanks to their burglar for being the means of extricating the dwarves from their indignity. Parasites or not.

If he had not - 

The king snarled; his anger unmistakable as he let the control he usually held so tightly over his emotions slip; his fingers digging into the hobbit´s arm, certain to leave a mark.

“How dare you undermine my authority? You were _told_ that I wished for you to keep away from – is _this_ how you mean to treat me for allowing my affections, my lo - ” He saw the hobbit´s surprise; consternation – hurt, even; but all that made him focus at that moment was the understanding that the hobbit, his love, his _One_ had deliberately, foolishly walked into the trolls´ camp in a stubborn attempt at getting to the ponies, having no thought for his own safety and the feelings of the one he had assented to court; had agreed to be courted by; fully ignoring the stipulations that came with such an agreement. 

He had known – Bilbo had _known_ that he wanted him _safe_. Bilbo had deliberately defied his orders. He had - 

“You foolishly risk the lives of this company - _your_ life! My - Do I mean so little to -” The dwarf seemed to reign himself in with supreme effort, the cold fury in his eyes making those of the company that had stepped up to come to the slumping hobbit´s defence take a hesitant step back. “Pack up your belongings, Master Baggins. We are moving on within the hour. Dwalin, Nori, Gloin – there will be a cave nearby.” The king then walked off without another word, making it clear that he expected the three dwarves to follow him, paying no further attention to the one he had begun to officially court.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Don´t mind him, laddie. Thorin is not used to having his heart touched.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo _did_ mind.

He minded that Thorin had chosen to berate him in front of the entire company and its resident wizard – not that arguments amongst hobbits were unheard of but they were usually kept within the walls of the participants´ homes; or at least enjoyed where no foreign eyes could feast upon the spectacle, thank you – and he very much minded the accusation of not caring for the dwarf´s feelings on the matter when it had been the _dwarf_ who had made decisions on his behalf without even pretending to consult him!

And then to just stalk off, like a … a - 

The hobbit huffed to himself, attacking the tear on his coat with renewed ferocity. 

Stupid troll.

Stupid _dwarf_.

Stupid dwarf whom Balin had suggested he corner and interrogate on the subject of dwarven courting customs. Which, the old dwarf had hinted at, might prove a little difficult to adhere to on the road but he felt confident Master Baggins and the king would find an agreement to their satisfaction.

“I´m a _hobbit_ ”, Bilbo had mulishly pointed out, if thawing a little due to some of the information that Balin had consented to share with him and his own growing -

No, but it couldn´t be _love_. Not yet. Yes, he liked the dwarf. He was quite ridiculously attracted to the dwarf. He did not at all mind the kisses. Would not mind... more. The hobbit blushed while bending further over his coat. (Quite an un-Bagginsish thing to admit to!). He wanted to run his fingers through the surprisingly silken mane most of the day. (But _that_ could just be a hair fetish!) He wanted to soothe away the pain and the darkness that surrounded Thorin at times, when he thought himself unobserved and his thoughts turned to Azanulbizar, to the Pale Orc, the loss of his grandfather and father and brother … Erebor … Smaug … the quest …

The hobbit sighed.

They needed to talk. In fact - 

„That is quite a big sigh for one hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.“

~ ~ ~ ~

“Was there something you needed, Gandalf?”

Really, Bilbo was in no mood to deal with the wizard.

It was the wizard´s fault that he currently found himself mending his favourite coat, the wizard´s fault that he had almost been nibbled on by trolls, the wizard´s fault that he had met the most odious, insufferable, endearing dwarf alive and - 

“My dear Bilbo, I rather think _I_ have something _you_ need.”

And with that, the the grey-hatted wizard presented the hobbit with a - 

Sword.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had not been looking at the hobbit.

After the hobbit.

For the hobbit.

He had not been looking at the hobbit when the hobbit had smiled at Ori in thanks for lending him needle and thread.

He had not been looking at the hobbit when he had accepted a bowl of stew from Bombur.

And also not the second serving, which, entirely too polite being that the hobbit was, the hobbit had tried to refuse. 

Only to be glared into quick submission by a passing Dwalin.

He had also not been looking at the hobbit when the hobbit had put a bandage around Fili´s cut; nor when he had inspected the back of Kili´s head for any bumps.

And he had most certainly not been looking at the hobbit when the hobbit had caught him looking at the hobbit.

And he had not seen the small, tentative smile on the hobbit´s face. 

That had made him look away in angry embarrassment.

He did not stare.

He was above staring.

But _Mahal_ , the hobbit made it hard for him to not - 

Look.

With his pretty curls and cute little nose and soft, kissable mouth and warm smile and entirely silly waistcoat and - 

Thorin loved him.

He loved the hobbit.

He loved the hobbit with every fibre of his being, his very soul, with everything that he was. 

The hobbit was his _One_.

His _heart_.

And to not be able to be near him, to enjoy his company, his mere presence; to have his smiles directed at himself (and not at _Bofur_. Or Ori. Or even his nephews.), to feel his touch, his - 

When the hobbit was so close - 

The king had kept his distance since their argument at the foot of the troll´s camp.

He had been too wounded in his pride at first; in his position as leader, as King; his anger an ever-boiling presence in the back of his mind. Later, he had been -

He was -

Ashamed.

It had not taken Balin´s silent disapproval; nor Dwalin´s more vocal expression of his discontent; nor the wizard´s unwelcome – and very much direct – hinting that the one Mahal had intended as the other part of his soul wasn´t a dwarf but a _hobbit_ and perhaps the king should bear that small fact in mind when taking the next step in his courtship of _Master Baggins_.

Thorin resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.

He should protect the hobbit.

His hobbit.

Bilbo.

He should protect Bilbo, cherish Bilbo, _love_ Bilbo.

And, in his fear and rage, had possibly driven him away. 

And he needed him.

Bilbo.

He needed - 

“Thorin?”


	3. Resting in Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has the emotional capacity of a concussed duck. Or it may just be the traditions.
> 
> But there is hope. Yet.
> 
> And some wargs.
> 
> And elves.

Those eyes.

Those very deep, very blue, very speaking, very sad - 

Wait.

What -

Sad?

The hobbit´s brow creased.

What had happened?

Besides their stupid argument, that was.

But that had just been an argument, hadn´t it. People argued. _Hobbits_ argued. Dwarves most certainly argued. A lot. And they bashed heads together and wrestled each other to the ground and poked and smacked and cuffed and sneered and _bit_ (or that may have been just Kili. That boy really was entirely too territorial over his baked goods.) and - 

_This_ dwarf looked - 

Lost.

Completely, utterly, vulnerably lost. 

As those eyes bore into the hobbit´s.

Something pulled around the general region of Bilbo´s breastbone.

His intention had been to firmly and politely inform the dwarf that he did not appreciate decisions being made for him and most especially not without any consultation whatsoever and that if his majesty should wish to enter into any form of energetic debate with him he would very much appreciate it if he would choose a more private setting for the same in the future, thank you. 

He did not enjoy being made a spectacle of in public.

And he would still inform the stupid dwarf of all that.

Later.

Because - 

“Oh _Thorin_.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Soft.

So very, very soft.

And the scent - 

Honey and tea and soap and earth and home and _Bilbo_ \- 

Thorin buried his face in the golden curls.

If this was to be the last time - 

If the hobbit was offering him this last comfort - 

Strong arms tightened their hold.

How could he - 

“Uhm, Thorin -?”

The dwarf mumbled something in the incomprehensible growl of a secret language the hobbit had no hope of understanding. Especially not as it was mumbled into his hair.

Right then.

“Thorin. You´re crushing me.”

The dwarf flinched, instantly drawing back and standing in front of the fallen trunk of a tree which had been his chosen retreat since the company had set up camp, a little removed from the general activities dwarves and wizard had chosen to take to.

“My apologies, Master Baggins.” Thick arms crossed in front of a fur-coated chest, the handsome face set as if in stone. “How may I serve you?”

_I will do anything you ask of me._

“I -”

_I am sorry._

“Well, I thought I´d - 

_Do not leave me._

“Look, Thorin. We need to -”

_I need you._

“It´s just that – I´m a _hobbit_ and -”

_You are mine._

“ - you are a dwarf and -”

_Please._

“- so we need to -”

 _I cannot let you go._

“- and _that´s_ what is going to happen. Between you and me. So - “

“No.”

“Yes – wait - _NO_? What -”

Bilbo spluttered.

Well, really! Did the dwarf just – oh no. No, no, no. He would not stand for this, certainly not. If that dwarf thought he could just - 

“You – ex _cu_ se me, your majesty, but if you wish for this whole stupid courtship to actually _lead_ somewhere you will just have to accept that there has to be some sort of compromise or other. You can´t go about ordering the others to do your bidding without speaking to me first! It´s – it´s overbearing. And embarrassing. And I am a _Baggins_ , of Bag End, and I will not be treated like a – a _fauntling_. Thank you.”

And the hobbit sincerely hoped he had brought his point across now. Because really, it would be such a shame if he had to trudge back to Hobbition now that he was getting used to all the grumpiness and grouchiness and all those long looks and the view of that lovely, swishing silver streaked mane from atop his pony and the whole kissing business and - 

“You intend to continue our courtship?”

And the rocks in the head.

Honestly.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin stared.

At the hobbit.

His hobbit.

The hobbit who had just embraced him, had let him bury his face in his honey-coloured curls, the hobbit who would have been within his rights to declare their courtship at an end over the dwarf´s failure to fulfil even the first of the required tasks set to a suitor. The hobbit who was standing there, in front of Thorin, with flushed cheeks and the air of one exasperated beyond belief and yet - 

It was not broken.

Had not been broken.

 _They_ were not broken.

Bilbo had spoken of concessions, of compromise. Of - 

The dwarf´s face slowly transformed.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Conti- were you even _listening_ to what I said? Honestly, Thorin, you really have to -”

Oh.

Well.

That was quite - 

That really should not be - 

Allowed.

Because - 

That was - 

Distracting.

And simply -

Unfair.

Yes.

He was going to tell the dwarf that he was not permitted to take to _that_ around the hobbit. 

Not without prior warning.

He had to concentrate.

He had a dragon to meet. Steal from a dragon. Escape from a dragon without any bum-burn of any sort if it can at all be helped, thank you.

And he would most seriously, certainly, definitely, absolutely, unfortunately be distracted if any dwarf kings within his general vicinity took to -

Smiling like that.

Thank Eru Bilbo was not one to indulge himself in fainting.

But the dwarf needed to stop.

Before the hobbit did something stupid.

Like latching on to him and - 

There were witnesses about.

And he´d quite like to hang on to at least a semblance of his respectability for a little while longer, if that could be arranged.

Right.

So - 

What had they been talking about?

Oh, that.

_That._

Well, that dwarf was going to learn to _listen_. To Bilbo, preferably. Definitely. He was not going to walk around Middle Earth with more than _one_ hearing-impaired companion to worry about (although Oin, at least, bless his heart, always at least made an effort to listen. Which was more than the hobbit was currently inclined to believe of his king.), thank you very much. 

So.

Really.

“Oh, stop it now! Really. You, Master Oakenshield -” The hobbit had recovered his befuddled senses enough to poke a speaking finger into a firm kingly chest - “Are really much more trouble than you´re worth. Yes, and I don´t even know what I´m going to do with you! And don´t smile at me like that when I´m angry with you! It´s distracting. And rude. And moreover - “

“Dôlzekh Menu.“

~ ~ ~ ~

Well.

It was an improvement, at all events.

From being shouted at.

And looking into those sad, lost eyes.

And all that Not. Really. Listening.

Although he would have to ask the dwarf about that forehead-knocking.

And that grunt that was supposedly a language.

No matter how softly presented.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Personally, and if anyone should care to ask him, Bilbo would be only to happy to do without any orcs coming to anyone´s borders. Near them. Even a respectable distance of them.

And they were quite welcome to keep those overgrown, slobbering, growling, biting, snarling and decidedly ugly pets of theirs very far away, too!

They had got to Thorin.

Well, they had almost got to Fili but Thorin had rushed to his nephew´s side and had pushed him down and - 

Thank Yavanna the elves had arrived.

Bilbo did not want to think of what would have happened if Lord Elrond and his warriors had not come to the dwarves´ aid.

And he seemed to be the only member of the company plagued by such thoughts (Did they really have to be so _rude_ all the time? The hobbit felt a constant need to apologise for one dwarf or another). Well, except for Gandalf, perhaps. Who had wandered off with their elven host and had not been seen in quite some time, leaving the hobbit to wonder what the dratted old wizard might be up to _now_ because if he had learned one thing during the course of their journey so far it was that Gandalf the Grey was _always_ up to something, especially when he seemed to be _not_ to be up to something at all. Of which the wizard had given quite a splendid impression once he had retreated from the chamber the elves had the leader of the company put up in, wonderfully stoic and unimpressed by the dwarf´s growling and altogether quite rude behaviour considering the healers had seen to his injury and had tried their best to make him as comfortable as possible for the duration of time he would be required to remain abed.

A few days, the healers had said.

To the king´s immediate and unmistakable dislike. And protest.

Which had made Bilbo glare at him.

Fiercely.

And then threaten to leave the room and the king to his healers´ mercy if he didn´t stop being a cloth-head and started to behave himself.

Which had the dwarf turn quite red in the face but – to what the hobbit had judged to be a very young elf´s barely there but still visible amusement, if one were quick enough to catch that mild twitch around the lips region – also, eventually, made him relent and adopt an almost pouting expression as he accused the hobbit of caring more for _elves_ \- the dwarf really could not have kept his distaste out of his voice, could he? - than the one he was supposed to _court_.

A fauntling.

Clearly.

Well, Bilbo had quite a bit of experience with dealing with those. The Tooks had quite an interesting approach to ensuring successions, after all.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had very much hoped it had not been a wolf.

And it had really been quite impolite of Bofur to crush that hope. Immediately.

And worse – the hatted dwarf had to go ahead and inform him that it was _worse_. In a manner of speaking. The dwarf _did_ point out that it had not been a wolf but before he could as much as enlighten the hobbit on the tell-tale differences between the various canines to be found out in the wild – why had he left his cosy little smial again? Oh. Quite. That. Honestly, that dwarf really was very lucky. - one such exemplary had leaped over the bushes and trunks and would have landed straight on the king, whose back had been turned to the beast, if Kili had not shot it. The second warg had been felled by Thorin himself and the last one confident enough to take a chance where his pack members had failed had made the acquaintance of Dwalin´s battle axe. Its skull, that was.

The king had not taken kindly to the wizard questioning him on his secrecy. Thorin swore he had told no-one about the quest when prompted. With emphasis. 

The thought of Thorin – of the company – being hunted...

And then they had happened upon the plains. All the corn and grass that happily grew in parts of them had made Bilbo sneeze a little – it just _had_ to be that time of the year! - but he would have happily sneezed all day long if it had meant they could have crossed them without being forced to outrun yet more wargs and their riders and finding themselves eventually forced to hold their ground and engage both beasts and masters in battle.

Kili´s arrows flew, Fili´s twin swords slashed; as did their uncle´s trusted weapons and on any other day the hobbit would have been happy to just sit quietly on the side and admire the dwarf´s prowess and how _majestic_ he was in his movements and in the way he held himself but that day, he just wanted to rush up to the king and firmly clutch the lapels of his fur coat and basically hide himself in its folds. Forever. If possible. He would not mind a forever with Thorin.

Not that that had been the time to ponder _that._

The insufferable dwarf really made him think of the most unsuitable things at the most unsuitable of times. He would have to tell the dwarf to stop that.

Accepting flowers was a much less straining exercise when it came to courting anyone, thank you.

Then the orc had crept up upon the older heir and Fili would have stood no chance at defending himself if it had not been for his uncle.

Bilbo shuddered at the memory of Thorin sinking to the ground and his nephew´s terrified shout. The wound had not been lethal, as the elves had later confirmed, but painful and restrictive enough to prevent the dwarf from further defending himself. And the hobbit really did not care to think of the blood loss. And the whiteness on his dwarf´s face.

Oh.

His.

His dwarf.

Well.

He supposed he was allowed to, now.

Considering - 

And - 

He quite – liked it.

Yes.

Uhm - 

“ _Bilbo.”_

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin frowned.

“You´re here.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would be dallying with the elves.”

The hobbit bit his lip.

“I was going to. But then I decided I was more of a mind to spend my afternoon being grouched at by an impossible dwarf.”

The impossible dwarf merely grunted, groping for a small hand and placing it on his – rather more naked - chest. 

“I do not like the way they look at you. They want to steal you from me, they have no respect for our courting customs and would gladly offer you a place to stay if only you were to ask for it.”

“Well, they did -” Bilbo began cheerfully, reaching out to gently brush away an errant dark strand, “Lord Elrond even offered me a placement in the library. I was quite tempted – all those books and scrolls and _history_! I could be quite happy spending years in there, you know.” 

The dwarf scowled, pulling at the hand he had been holding onto firmly.

“Erebor has a library.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” The hand that had been pulling had moved further up to grasp the hobbit´s arm, tugging the smaller being even closer. “And I will build you one in our chambers.”

“Thorin! Your _wound_ -”, the hobbit protested, attempting to halt his descend. And anyone might come in, too! And – wait. _Our_?

~ ~ ~ ~

_Too fast, too fast!_

Or that was what the Baggins side had to loudly say on the subject.

The Took side was a little distracted by the sight of the dwarf laid out on the bed, his hair sprawled on both sides of his head, the thin sheet covering his rather nice body (and it´s nothing the hobbit hadn´t seen before, thank you! Well, not that he _should_ have seen it before but he _had_ seen it before so oh never mind that just now -) reaching merely up to under his belly and - 

Those blue eyes had darkened.

Bilbo gulped as he found himself chest to chest. Well, his was very much clothed, thank you. And Thorin´s was - 

Suitably hairy, he supposed.

And that was feeling quite wonderful and - 

Nope.

He did not wish to hurt the dwarf any further. 

Yes, that meant his injury from his encounter with the blasted orc and …

That other thing.

Which the dwarf was apparently Quite Firmly Set On.

It was flattering, really, it was, but that aside - 

They really had to talk. Talk talk. As in Bilbo Baggins was going to ask questions and the dwarf was going to answer them and then, if he felt so inclined, ask questions of his own in return. None of the Bilbo Baggins was going to rant until he was done only to have the dwarf smile at him _like that_ without having properly listened again. And they would start Right Now. 

Or maybe once the dwarf had finished nibbling at his ear and - 

Right.

Talk.

Now.

Whatever the tip of his ear had to say to that. Because really - 

It was quite lovely, actually, and – mmmmh - 

_No._

“Stop! Thorin!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“But you are caring for me.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was -

Confused.

The noble brows furrowed, a crease having appeared on his face.

Bilbo was telling him that while Thorin had been courting him – had taken to the customs and traditions of his people – he had _not_ been courting him. And that Bilbo, while he had every _intention_ of courting him, had not yet _been_ courting him. 

There was quite a bit more his adorably fussy, slightly dishevelled One had been telling him – sternly; which the king considered almost irresistibly cute on the hobbit - but while he had been assuming that he had taken the correct path as many of his forefathers, his kin, his people had before him (and Thorin was not going to acknowledge that binding his heart and his mind to a hobbit could be seen in any way unusual to the same; and he was even less inclined to acknowledge that touching Bilbo, pulling Bilbo in his arms, _kissing_ Bilbo may have been a little premature as far as those customs were concerned. He wanted. Bilbo. He wanted him. And Bilbo -), had been agonising over his failure to protect his One, had been pleased to discover his One at his sick-bed (all very much acknowledged parts of dwarven courting culture, which Balin would be happy to explain further to anyone wishful of learning); his One had - 

No knowledge of having any need to find himself protected by his suitor.

And he had even less knowledge of caring for his suitor in his weakest moments suggesting a readiness to accept the same with all that he was.

Thorin had almost gaped. 

He had wanted to prove himself to the hobbit, had wanted to win the hobbit.

He had wanted to make the hobbit care for him as much as he cared for - 

Hobbits did not have Ones.

He should never have asked that _elf_ for that book.

~ ~ ~ ~

So _that_ was why the dwarves had practically pushed him into the chamber.

And he had asked Lindir if he could be admitted to the kitchens to prepare a little treat for the sneaky, interfering, pushy lot! Really.

Well of course he was going to look after Thorin! Thorin had been injured. Defending his sister-son (he was going to have to have a little talk with that silly boy, too, because really – anyone knew it had not been _his_ fault but would Fili accept that? Stubborn. Like his uncle. Ugh, those Durins. The only Durin who was surprisingly level-headed about the affair was _Kili_ and wasn´t that scary, as a thought.). He was not at all a hard-hearted hobbit but even if he were a hard-hearted hobbit it would still be _Thorin_ and he quite liked the notion of a living, breathing, growling, scowling, bad-tempered, confusing, sweet, loveable, much too distracting Thorin as opposed to a pale, still, seemingly lifeless Thorin.

The sight of which had nearly scared the hobbit quite to death – yes, well – until the healer had informed him it had just been a reaction to the potion they had _convinced_ His Majesty to eventually take (and the barely there hint of a shudder quite told the hobbit everything he should have wished to know about the convincing part of the treatment) and which, to the benefit of all parties involved, would make him rest for a while. 

So Bilbo had let him – rest. 

And had wiped his sweating brow; had maybe put a brief, soft kiss to the dwarf´s forehead. 

And was now trying to make sense of all the nonsense. 

__

~ ~ ~ ~

“Of course I am going to care for you! Or would you rather -”

A calloused hand quickly reached out to prevent the hobbit´s retreat. 

Bilbo took this as the sign that it was and rearranged himself on the bed. 

Where he had eventually settled himself when entering into the discussion with the dwarf. 

Leaning against the headboard. At first. 

His shoulder merely touching the dwarf king´s. At first.

Somehow his head had found itself under the dwarf´s chin but the hobbit really did not feel inclined to analyse that occurrence at that current moment in time. There were much more pressing matters to think about.

Like how wonderful it felt to have his hair petted like that.

“You still wish to court.”

The hobbit smiled, pressing his nose into the firm chest.

“What?”

Thorin, unable to decipher the mumbling that had been directed towards the general region of his collarbone, tipped up the stubborn chin.

“I said – You are an insufferable cloth-head. Your majesty. Now mind your shoulder.”

That display of brazen disrespect was immediately answered with ruthless, if demanding, silencing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may wonder at my skipping over the "action/plot" parts that you would expect to see here. The reason for my doing so is that I want to concentrate on their courting and everything that comes with it rather than simply jot down a more or less complete retelling of the story. And like I said in the notes of the last chapter - I´m tweaking. A lot. But you can trust me. :)


	4. Of Bathing and Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleanliness is a thing with hobbits.
> 
> And with dwarves. 
> 
> In its way.
> 
> There is a map to read. Even if Bilbo should prefer to explore some gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes earlier than I thought it would, I spent the last couple of days on sick leave and thus had ample time for typing. 
> 
> This is for you, authoressjean. <3 
> 
> And you can all go and blame all the shameless fluff on her, she expressed a partiality for it.

Bilbo leaned against the heavy wooden door; releasing a relieved, unashamed sigh. 

Really.

Those - 

Yes, and the elves were not much better. Especially those sons of their lord. 

He was going to have to take a very firm stance with both the twins and the heirs of Durin. And Bofur. And Nori. And even _Dwalin_. And had _that_ not been disappointing.

Which the hobbit very much hoped to have conveyed to the bald dwarf with A Look.

Honestly.

Cleanliness and personal hygiene were all very well and as a hobbit and a Baggins Bilbo very much approved of the dwarves´ eventual desire to rid themselves of the remainders of any reminders of their journey so far. Rain, trolls, wargs, food fights – all those things. And more. And he was even more in favour of a soak. A hot bath. A long soak in a hot bath. 

He had even encouraged them!

Stupid hobbit that he was.

He should have known to be suspicious of the sudden enthusiasm expressed by most members of the company.

But he had not known the dwarves had discovered the large, ornamental _fountain_.

Which they had not only mistaken (he was very willing to give them the benefit of doubt, if only for his own peace of mind, thank you) for the hot springs – or an actual bathroom, rather – but, and the hobbit really could not find a way around thinking of it as such, had taken siege of.

Enthusiastically.

Loudly.

Splashingly.

Nakedly.

The poor hobbit had not known where to look. 

That had been rather too much of – everything.

Of hair, of skin, of rings, of piercings, of tattoos, of - 

Nope.

He really, _really_ had not needed to see that. Why had he been forced to see that? How was he going to _unsee_ that? Bilbo had felt like running up to Thorin and hiding his face in the furry chest (the only piece of naked and hairy dwarven skin he was interested in seeing! Well, perhaps not the _only_ , strictly, but that was rather beside the point at that current point. Quite.) and request him to make it go away and - 

Thank Eru Thorin had not been among them.

The Peredhil twins had been teasing him enough over the interesting shade of red on his cheeks as it was. Children that they were. If rather tall children.

Lord Elrond had waved his apologies away with barely a twitch on his stoic face but poor Lindir ...

~ ~ ~ ~

Well, he would be enjoying _his_ bath now and quite without any exposure to any hairy dwarves or relentless elven offspring or -

“Master Baggins.”

Maybe not.

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit crossed his arms.

Or he would have, had his arms and hands not been busy clasping the folds of the somewhat oversized robe he had borrowed (probably a loan from a very young elfling, he assumed) tightly to his chest so as to prevent the flimsy garment (really, did those elves have to favour those almost translucent fabrics?!) from giving view to what he was not at all prepared to allow a view of at that present moment. 

“ _Thorin_!”

~ ~ ~ ~

There was an almost sheepish look on the dwarf´s face.

The _elf_ had told him it would be _unwise_ to risk aggravating his wound.

 _Balin_ had advised him to let Oin assist with his ablutions.

 _Dwalin_ had informed him that the burglar had not minded his majesty´s stink so far and was hardly likely to scrunch up his cute little nose _now_. 

The king had made a very firm promise to himself to punch his friend in the jaw once his sword arm would be fully flexible again. Twice.

And then promptly pulled on his trousers and loose tunic and made his way to the hot baths. If he winced a little during the former process he was not going to allow anyone to remark on it.

He was perfectly able to wash and dress himself; he had no need of any assistance and he was certainly not going to let an _elf_ dictate his moves. 

The dwarf was not quite certain whether that applied to the hobbit that had just appeared in the bath as well.

At the very least, he would offer up some resistance, he supposed.

He _was_ King.

And his hobbit was simply utterly adorable when all flustered and huffy and by the look of things, Thorin was going to be treated to a lovely view of his hobbit taking to just that. Perhaps he should move and offer his hobbit assistance with the dispensing of the extremely unnecessary piece of clothing around his hobbit´s shapely form? He could coax Bilbo into joining him in the warm water and then - 

A sharp twinge in his shoulder reminded the dwarf that the blasted elf may have had a point. Curse him.

Thorin had a hobbit to court, he was not going to be restrained by a minor battle wound.

He found, however, that that was very much going to be the case.

At the hands of a hobbit.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You stupid dwarf, what have you done _now_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The sheepish expression gave way to annoyance.

Bilbo was having none of it; he had seen that flinch and the grimace that came with it. 

He arranged his robe into something resembling respectability and marched up to where the dwarf had seated himself on a stool, wearing nothing but his trousers. Loosely, too! And he had apparently been undoing his braids. And his ridiculously small feet were _naked_!

Not that the hobbit was at all drawn to them, thank you very much.

And he was very lucky that he had seen all of it before. Yes.

Well, his own bath had to wait, he had a dwarf to shepherd back into his room. Onto his bed. On which he would be very much staying alone. This time. 

Bilbo had just about managed to untangle himself from the strong limbs and persistent mouth last time, pointed ears quite flushed and his hair completely dishevelled. Dwalin´s brow had twitched when he almost ran into the stone wall that was the dwarf´s chest while hurrying away from his amorous suitor. He had sped up on his way before the dwarf could so much as reach for his axe. To polish it. Sharpen it. Or whatever it was he preferred to do with it when faced with flustered hobbits on the run from his king.

“Should you even be out of bed? No – of course you shouldn´t be out of bed!” The hobbit muttered to himself about impossible, stubborn, difficult dwarf kings who took enjoyment in plaguing hobbits who were silly enough to care for their well-being and swatted at the hand that had reached up to continue its work. Then he began to loosen the rest of the braid. “I´m surprised the healers even let you. Or do I even want to know what you threatened to do to them this time? Really, Thorin -” small, gentle fingers ran through the freed strands - “You could _try_ for a little more civility! You do not care for elves, I get that, but these elves _did_ come to your aid. _And_ helped healing you. A little less hostility would be much appreciated.” There was a - “I´m sorry? Did you just _pinch_ my _bottom_?!”

The dwarf merely smirked.

Not nearly apologetically enough, were one to ask the hobbit.

Right.

That - 

“I will thank _your majesty_ to keep your hands where I can see them! Or I will call for Lathlian to assist you with your bath.”

Thorin growled in that deep rumble of a voice.

“I would drown him.”

“No you wouldn´t. Balin would not allow you to do anything so impolitic. And it´s bad manners. Now get into the water -” The hobbit wagged a forbidding finger in front of the dwarf´s face, as one elegant brow quirked once it had lifted from the pair of trousers that still hugged a pair of surprisingly – and Bilbo had had a few opportunities to, uhm, inspect them at that stage, thank you - narrow hips. “And no funny business. And I am _not_ helping you with _those_! In fact -” He resolutely turned his back to the dwarf and busied himself with the bottle of oil and the comb that had been placed near the handful of stairs that led down into the bath that was the size of farmer Grubb´s field. Twice, a hobbit could be forgiven to think.

And he was not at all thinking of all those muscles and skin and lovely hair and - 

“Bilbo.”

And that voice would be the death of him.

Honestly.

~ ~ ~ ~

He was not going to own up to that noise.

Nor the other one.

And certainly not to _that_ one.

It was all Bilbo´s fault.

It was _Bilbo_ who had told him to tilt back his head – and close his eyes – and to let the hobbit get to work.

It was _Bilbo_ who had started to wet his hair.

 _Bilbo_ who had soaped it.

Who had rinsed it.

 _Bilbo_ who had taken to gently massaging the oil into his scalp.

He was going to reprimand the hobbit later for comparing him to a _cat_.

Even if the abominably cheeky creature had allowed that he was a _majestic_ cat.

(He had firmly stopped any further cheeky observations with his mouth. Repeatedly.)

And he hadn´t just made _that_ noise either.

Gods, it felt so - 

“Thorin?”

The king slowly opened an eye.

To find his hobbit smiling down at him, and in such a way that he did not hesitate to reach up his hand again to draw - 

“No, no, no, your majesty -” Bilbo evaded the grabby hand, firmly ignoring the wounded, displeased noise the dwarf made in the back of his throat - “It is time for your majesty to get out of this pool and to let me put those braids in again. And then I´ll have my own bath.” And that made him firmly ignore the immediately interested eyebrow. Honestly. That dwarf - “While _you_ go back to your room to torture that poor elf! Yes, and it´s a good thing that elves are so even-tempered, or we would have long been banished from Rivendell! You know, I nearly thought we _would_ be, once Bofur started to dance on that poor table only - _Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

One innocent eyebrow rose, a hint of laughter in that deep voice.

“Anything the matter, Master Baggins?”

The hobbit spluttered, flailing a little before he promptly turned around.

And he had most certainly _not_ squeaked!

And his heart was most definitely _not_ doing erratic things in his chest, or anywhere near the same, thank you.

Really.

That insufferable, impossible - 

Although he did have a very nice backside.

The show-off.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I hear I am to offer you my congratulations, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo almost choked on his drink. They had not _told_ anyone, had they – that is, he had not talked to Thorin about _telling_ anyone and would Thorin even want to _tell_ anyone? Not that Bilbo was against _telling_ anyone but, well, they _were_ courting and it was somewhat private and he´d rather not have anyone congratulating him on anything until that anything had properly gone somewhere because you never knew if – and there was that small matter of reclaiming a mountain from a dragon, moreover, and - 

“Well, yes, I mean – we´re just courting, my lord. Nothing is quite – decided. Yet. You see.”

An elegant elven brow rose.

“Indeed? I did not think Thorin Oakenshield to be of an undecided disposition.” The elf leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “King Thorin would appear to be quite determined once set on a - _task_.”

Bilbo frowned a little.

Now what was the elf up to _now_?

They were not really talking about the king´s courtship of the hobbit anymore, were they? Lord Elrond had been welcoming, even kind, and certainly patiently tolerating in view of – yes, well – but Bilbo could not help feeling that there was quite a lot more going on behind that calm, collected façade. A lot more of a lot. And Bilbo Baggins was not certain that he appreciated that _a lot more_ being directed at him. For _purposes_. Or did the Lord of Rivendell think he would be able to sway Thorin, once that stubborn dwarf had made up his stubborn mind? That might work where towels were involved, and only after a lot of flustering and threatening and scolding, and he really wasn´t going back to _that_ over dinner, thank you, and - 

The elf lord was going to have to put his questions to the king. Bilbo was, fortunately, just a hobbit. With no notion of dealing with any politics. Or diplomacy. No more than he had already been obliged to deal with either, that was. What with the dwarves not hesitating to be entirely – _dwarvish_. And most of the elves, stoically polite as they were, if a little shell-shocked. Right. So - 

“I am a hobbit, my lord. Of the Shire. And hobbits are not known to rush into things. Well, if they are not food, that is.”

Elrond lowered the glass and studied the blithely smiling hobbit for a moment. Then he offered a small, smiling nod of his own.

“King Thorin chose wisely, Master Baggins. I look forward to further making the acquaintance of the future Consort of Erebor. Perhaps we may continue this conversation during a tour of the gardens later?”

Well, that would be quite nice, actually; Rivendell´s gardens were famous for their - 

“Oi! You can´t have our hobbit!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I assure you, Master Kili, I have no designs on Mister Baggins.”

The young dwarf, who had appeared from around a pillared corner just at that moment, seemed entirely unconvinced. Or so the mulish expression on his face suggested. And as for that patented Durin glare - 

“He is betrothed to _uncle_.”

What - 

Really.

What was it with just about everyone jumping very much ahead of themselves? They were - 

“ _Courting_ , Kili. Thorin and I are just _courting_.” The hobbit firmly ignored the wounded puppy look on the youngest Durin´s face. It was a very good thing that he was getting immune to those eyes! Slowly. Surely. Possibly. Hopefully. “And if I want to visit any gardens in the company of Lord Elrond – or anyone! - I will visit those gardens! You are welcome to join us. Only no crushing of any flowers with those boots of yours!”

Those big, brown eyes grew very, very wide. Possibly the widest they had ever been. Then the young dwarf straightened. And sniffed. Heroically. While eyeing the elven lord with still present suspicion.

“If you think you need an escort. Mister Boggins.”

That was, of course, _not_ what the hobbit had been thinking but he was still a little touched at the offer. Nevertheless, he decided now was not the time to humour any inanities.

He had to deal with enough of them when faced with the boy´s stubborn oaf of an uncle.

“Was there something you needed, Kili?”

“Thorin sent me.” Kili directed one final glare at their host. “That elf declares him whole enough for travel and he wishes you to be present when deal – _speak_ ing with Lord Elrond. About – you know. Gandalf thinks it a very good notion, too”, he added, as if in an afterthought. And then glared a little more as the elven lord confirmed that he had just been on his way to meet with the king.

Of course the wizard would. 

Meddlesome creature.

~ ~ ~ ~

“So that is your purpose. To enter the mountain.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin hated elves.

Thorin hated the Rivendell elves.

Thorin hated Lord Elrond.

And Lathlian.

And Lindir.

And all the elves he met on his way to _my lord´s_ council chamber who kept misdirecting him. On purpose. 

(And he was _not_ lost.)

He had not expected anything else from _elves_ , of course.

Not after he had learned that Elrond had even offered his _One_ a place to stay, should the hobbit decide he had made a mistake in signing the contract, in accepting Thorin´s -

Bilbo would not regret it. 

He would make sure of it.

He was healed, they were going to leave this _place_ \- he only had to suffer through the inanities of courtesy and politics ( _The elves healed you, Thorin! Try not to growl at them too much_. Hmpf. His burglar had much better direct his cheekiness at those who deserved it. Like elves who attempted to persuade him to -) that one time and then they would be on their way.

He would let the wizard know what he thought of such high-handedness once they were past the elves´ borders. And the hobbit was not nearby. 

He did not like it when Bilbo looked at him in _that_ way.

He much preferred it when the hobbit looked at him cheekily. Or lovingly. Or passionately. Yes, definitely passionately. Bilbo was beautiful when - 

“King Thorin.”

King Thorin looked up and - 

Glared.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Durin´s Day? What -”

“The dwarves´ New Year. The first day of the last moon of autumn.”

Bilbo frowned.

“Autumn? But that is -”

“We still have time. We can make it to the mountain before the sun sets and then find the keyhole.”

Uhm yes. That.

Hole. For a key.

To a door.

Which was secret.

And would, apparently, allow them to enter the Lonely Mountain without the company having to sneak in through the damaged front gate. 

Bilbo was all for secret doors and secret tunnels and secretly happening on dragons if it should mean he would be able to steal from dragons … secretly.

Did dragons take to hibernation?

Would it be too early to hope for hibernation? And a particular dragon taking to it?

And that that particular dragon would be hard of hearing and not in possession of any such device as was assisting Oin with his affliction, dragon-sized or otherwise?

Maybe someone could be so kind as to read that particular dragon a hibernation bedtime story? Or two?

Lord Elrond had stated that fate was with them. Well, Thorin, to be precise. Thorin Oakenshield. Son of Thrain. Son of Thror. King under the Mountain. Thorin. 

His Thorin. 

The Thorin who had not at all been pleased with having to admit Lord Elrond into his plans, had almost refused to permit the elf even a glimpse of his map, had glared at the same at the mere hint of a suggestion that his plan to retake his mountain might not be the wisest of ideas. 

Although – that low, warning note in the dwarf´s voice had been quite appeal-

Yes, well.

It was. And he was just a hobbit, how was he supposed to resist its - 

Fine.

_Fine._

Bilbo was going to be sensible about this.

One of them had to be, after all. And it clearly wasn´t going to be that silly dwarf. Balin seemed a little more inclined towards sensibility but he was also loyal to his King so - 

It was a very good thing Bilbo had decided upon that adventure, considering. Those dwarves needed someone with a little common sense to save them from their own - 

Or it may have been the stupidest thing Bilbo had ever done, considering. Well, the dragon. Orcs. Wargs. Trolls. And whatever they might yet run into. And all that. Yes. 

The hobbit would have to think about it. Some time.

Gandalf was smiling at him from the other side of the -

It was a cliff they were standing on, wasn´t it?

And there was water.

Yes, there was definitely water.

A lot of water.

A regular fall of it.

Bilbo hated water.

Dratted wizard.

~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning found the company of Thorin Oakenshield setting off towards the Misty Mountains.

At last.

Which was very likely the only point both most of the dwarves and most of the elves agreed on.

The company´s resident hobbit would not have minded remaining in the Last Homely House a little longer – he never got to fully explore all of the gardens that were so very famous – but he had noticed the small, unhappy crease on his suitor´s forehead when he had permitted himself a what he had thought to have been unobserved sigh over the lost opportunity and had chosen to forgo teasing the already sorely afflicted dwarf over his prejudices. 

He could still do so during the course of the remaining journey. 

And the elves were not so bad, really.

Except for Lord Elrond´s twin sons, of course.

They had taken to Cuddling With The Hobbit in quite a similar manner to that of the king´s heirs. 

And it was a very good thing neither the king´s heirs nor the king himself had chanced to observe any of those impromptu sessions.

Bilbo would never be able to get over his embarrassment if a war should break out over his perceived preferences.

As if there could be any contest.

Really.

_Dwarves._

The hobbit permitted himself one last look back at the bottom of the footpath that would take them towards the mountains when strong arms circled his form from behind, a bearded chin resting atop his golden curls.

“Regrets, my hobbit?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“The beds were rather nice.”

There was a stiffening.

“And I quite liked the food.”

Followed by a tightening of the arms.

“Elves really are quite something to look at, aren´t they?”

And a low growl.

“I did not even get to see the private garden!”

The body behind the hobbit suddenly removed itself and the hands attached to the same turned the smaller being firmly around.

One of them came up.

Then -

“I suggest you keep up, Master Baggins.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo watched the king stomp off, his grin even wider as his fingers curled around the flower in his hair. 


	5. Over Mountains, Into Towns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has no fondness for stones.
> 
> He does prefer them to goblins though.
> 
> Thorin still has so much to learn.
> 
> The question is whether he will get that chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter almost didn´t happen. It gave me trouble. And then more trouble. I rewrote certain scenes about five times, changed my mind, didn´t know what to do with it and almost went and chucked everything. If it had not been for the encouragement of some lovely people it may have turned out even more absurd than it is. Be glad I deleted those first angst-y drafts I had for that´s what they were. Absurd. But you can still trust me. There is some sense to this. And fluff. All will be well. I promise. 
> 
> And dearest, loveliest authoressjean - the appearance I promised? Next chapter. I shuffled it around. For flow and suspense (yes, laugh it up, I´m laughing, too!) reasons. 
> 
> That said - thank you so much for reading, leaving feedback and hitting the kudos and bookmark buttons! You make my heart sing. :)

Thorin was going to have to abdicate.

Renouncing his throne was the only option. 

If the stupid dwarf wanted this courtship to go anywhere.

He was very sorry, of course, seeing how much trouble this whole quest and retaking of lonely mountains undertaking was causing and would – the hobbit did not have any high hopes as to that at that stage – still cause and the dwarf would surely look all majestic and splendid on his throne; not to mention very edible (Bilbo had _eyes_ , thank you very much!), but he was going to have to hand his crown over to Fili and spend the rest of his life gardening and reading and feeding the hobbit berries with his hand and cuddling with him in front of the fire and kissing him and, uhm yes, well – oh, and there was going to be a lot of _that_ \- because _really_!

Bilbo had quite enough of _stone_.

Of _rocks_.

And mountains.

Any mountains.

Any rocks. 

And stone.

Especially of the giants variety.

Stone giants.

Honestly.

As if the downpour of a rain and the nastiness of a storm that came with it had not been enough to foist upon an unsuspecting, unappreciative hobbit but they had started _moving_ and throwing _rocks_ about and all sorts of things a hobbit could very much do without when trying to actually _walk_ over them.

Yes, that may have been somewhat impolite but no-one had told them that the dead rock wasn´t dead at all, had they? Legends, Bofur had called them. Bless his beard and all that. Bilbo huffed. Rocks and mountains were supposed to be _unmoving_. For the most part. Not to take to any sort of ball games. Or punching. All that swaying had given him vertigo. Amongst other things.

And then that large piece of rock about to crash into them - 

The hobbit felt certain he would never forget the anguish in Thorin´s shout for his nephew. And the shocked anger when he had realised that Bilbo had been cowering on the same crumbled surface as Fili and the other dwarves of the company had.

That _“at my side!”_ demand was not _that_ non-negotiable but Bilbo drew the line at any collars. Or leashes.

Really.

And now that _cave_.

Caves were high on the hobbit´s list of Decidedly Unhobbitish Offerings To Be Avoided At All Costs. Especially dark, wet and windy caves. That made a hobbit that had not the protection of a thick fur coat and only called a flimsy blanket his own _cold_. Sniffingly so. 

And the one who _owned_ such an exemplary of a desirable coat was nowhere to be seen. 

Bilbo sighed.

Fine, he would trudge out into the even more unpleasant cold. Just so that Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain of Silliness, could have his sulk unobserved. More or less.

Nurturing was an important part of hobbit-courting, after all.

He might even be able to convince the dwarf that a smack on the back of a head was, too.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was _not_ \- brooding.

He did not brood.

He also did not worry.

Or _fear_.

He was in perfect control over his non-existent emotions. 

He was carving that piece of ill-shaped, wet wood because he had nothing better to do. Because it kept him alert. And awake.

He would not let his nephews see him like that.

He could not let _Bilbo_ see him like that.

So he carved.

Inexpertly.

In the cold.

In the wind.

When he would rather sever a head.

Or two.

He was not - 

“Budge up, your majesty.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bilbo.”

Thorin looked down at the unexpected mass of slightly shivering hobbit in his lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting warm”, was the reply that was muffled into a solid chest, a head of honey-coloured curls firmly pressed into the same as the hobbit released a contented sigh.

A pair of strong arms automatically came up to fold the smaller being close.

“I am no furnace, hobbit.”

“I thought you were courting me.”

“I _am_ courting you.”

Bilbo smiled into the furred coat. Thorin sounded horribly offended at the insinuation that he may have been in any way negligent. Well then - 

“You have not picked me any flowers - _that_ one doesn´t count, you pinched it from the elves! And I´m quite certain it was more for your own benefit than mine”, he was quick to add, before his suitor could offer up any protest. “There is no flower crown on my head, I have had to make my own tea and am still waiting for you to cook me a meal. With dessert!” There was now a sulking note to the hobbit´s voice. “And _you_ say you are courting me!”

Thorin grunted.

“I should be covering you with gems. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds! Not subject you to the indignities of our travels, to its dangers! I should be keeping you _sa-_ ” He glared at the soft, squirming creature in his lap. 

“Are we talking nonsense now? Because if we are -” his insolent hobbit went on, indifferent to the indignity that he was making the king suffer, “I will leave your majesty to his brooding and go back into that cave! Bofur was telling a very interesting story about a boar and a stag and I´d quite like – _Thorin!”_

He was not at all apologetic. 

The hobbit should never have manhandled him. 

And how was he supposed to resist the strange softness of that palm on his mouth? 

And he longed to mark the hobbit as his. 

To lower his mouth to that creamy skin and bite and suck and soothe and - 

Bilbo was _his._

His hobbit. 

Burglar. 

_One._

And he did not like it when - 

“Bilbo.” 

The hobbit hummed, still wrapped up in those strong arms. 

“Stop flirting with Bofur.” 

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was going to bash his head against the wall.

But then – the dwarf´s chest was as hard as a rock and it had the additional advantage of one not being obliged to move in order to be able to meet with that very desired goal so it would do just as well, really.

And then he could also pull the braids.

Hard.

Really.

Flirting.

With _Bofur_.

He was a respectable _hobbit_. He did not take to any _flirting_. And the things he had been doing with the dwarf whose lap he was currently sitting on counted as _courting_. Surely. And it was nobody´s business if it didn´t. 

And it had not been Bilbo Baggins who had pinched any bottoms, thank you very much.

Honestly.

How Thorin could be so _dense_ \- 

Stupid dwarf.

“Well I´m very sorry, your majesty, but I can´t. Because - _Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo glared.

Fiercely.

Up.

At the dwarf.

The dwarf who had stood so abruptly that the hobbit in his lap had – very unceremoniously, too! - been pushed off said lap.

Where the hobbit had been very comfortable.

Where he had _liked_ it.

The hobbit did _not_ like the hard, cold ground.

He would very much like to sulk over his ill-treatment and demand adequate compensation, but he was rather too cold and rather too annoyed, considering. 

“That was a _joke_ , Thorin.” 

The broad shoulders relaxed, even if the tone in the king´s voice was still accusing. 

“My feelings offer you amusement?” 

Bilbo huffed. 

Then quickly got to his feet so that he was able to exactly tell the cloth-headed dwarf what he thought of his – whatever this was! 

Pokingly. 

“I was very comfortable in _your_ lap! I have no need of any _other_ lap when I can be in _your_ lap, you stupid dwarf! And I´m returning to the cave now! You are welcome to continue sulking over insulting absurdities if you so wish, I refuse to freeze my toes off trying to talk sense into you.” The hobbit took a deep, fortifying breath. “And I am very cross with you. You, you … utter _dunce!_ ” 

~ ~ ~ ~

One minute there had been a burglar in his lap, cuddling up to him, nose pressed into his chest, arms around his torso – or as much of it as the cute, small, addictively soft things were able to encircle - the next minute he found himself feeling -

He had done nothing wrong; the hobbit was the one who should be apologising to _him_. 

Did he not see how Thorin loved him? Treasured him? _Wanted_ him? Was his love not enough? Was he to compete with a _miner_? A miner who had a way with words, who was kind and friendly and fond of jokes and music and much more suited to - 

The king scowled.

Hobbits did not have Ones.

And the hobbit had made him no promises. To the hobbit, there could be an end to the courtship.

To Thorin - 

He frowned.

Bilbo had said – had alluded to - 

He wanted _him_.

Or at least to sit in his lap. 

Not _Bofur´s_ lap. 

Or anyone else´s lap.

Only _Thorin_ ´s lap.

Somewhere in the back of his annoyed, jealous, possessive mind the dwarf acknowledged that that train of thought was not at all helpful. Or appropriate. But he liked having the hobbit in his lap. He liked everything about the hobbit. Of the hobbit. Preferably as close to his own person as possible. And Bilbo had suggested he wanted him, too. 

A little relief flooded through the dwarf at the dawning comprehension.

And guilt.

Possibly.

But he did not only want the hobbit to want him, he wanted the hobbit to _love_ him. He wanted the hobbit´s _heart_.

As Bilbo had _his_ heart.

He was going to win it.

If he had to tolerate any flower crowns on his head in order to be able to call the hobbit his he would suffer them.

For a while.

And maybe he would refrain from breaking any miner´s nose if he caught them cozying up to his One again.

~ ~ ~ ~

Not that he himself would be cozying up to the hobbit any time soon.

Or ever again.

_No._

They would fight their way out of the wretched tunnels, they would be safe and he would find his hobbit again.

Bilbo would be fine.

He would be unhurt.

Safe.

Thorin refused to consider any other option.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Who would be so bold as to come into _my_ kingdom?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Goblins.

The cave had been a trap, its ground having given way to the kingdom underneath it and had surprised most of the company in their sleep.

Thorin had been awake, content to listen to the soft breathing of the hobbit in his arms, his nephews curled up next to each other close to them.

The hobbit had been shivering in his chosen spot on the cold, hard cave floor, his thin blanket providing little warmth. 

He had not been able to keep his distance, even if he suspected the small being to still be very vexed with him. The king had lowered himself to the floor, next to the stubborn little creature, and had pulled him into his chest, one arm firmly wrapped around his soft middle, the hobbit´s back to his front, fur coat spread so as to offer what warmth it could.

“I´m still cross with you”, Bilbo had mumbled, even as he had allowed Thorin to pull his body close, not protesting when he was moments later turned and fitted into the taller´s body so that his head rested underneath a bearded chin.

To the king´s relief.

Then everything had turned towards pandemonium.

~ ~ ~ ~

In retrospect, stones were actually quite nice.

Lovely, really.

And stone giants were all that was courteous and sociable and accommodating.

In comparison to goblins.

And especially that rather enormous, big-chinned (Was it wobbling? He squinted. Yup. It was wobbling. Well. That was a little – gross.), loud, tone-deaf, uncivil exemplary sitting on that _throne_ and who was, to the hobbit´s unending astonishment, those creatures´ king. But then again, Bilbo mused, if you risked to be crushed – or quite possibly eaten – should even the smallest idea of any usurping enter your small, befuddled goblin mind …

He wished he had thought to bring some mint leaves.

He could have offered them as a token of respect.

Gift.

Yes, well.

Bad breath really was unnecessary, everyone could see to their teeth after a meal! 

And bad breath coming from the direction of a really unsightly accumulation of -

Nope.

He wasn´t even going there, there were more pressing matters to consider.

Such as getting out of the goblin kingdom alive. And with all limbs still attached. And no broken anything. Or anything burned, Off. Or cut. Off. Into. And such like things a hobbit really, really had no fondness of. And, Bilbo suspected, neither had the dwarves. They only enjoyed a little physical expression of their woes when being on the inflicting side of things. That is, besides Nori, possibly. And maybe Dwalin. Why those two had not yet - 

_NO._

He had enough to deal with where his own courtship was concerned, thank you.

And he´d quite like to get on with it so if His Goblin Majesty could also Get On With It he´d be very much obliged to him. 

“Start with the youn- – well, well, well -” Oh dear. “What have we _here_? Bring him to me!”

Well, maybe not quite like that.

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _Wait!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

_Not_ the hobbit.

Not _his_ hobbit.

Not _Bilbo_!

Thorin pushed through the throng of dwarves and goblins to stand before his company, ignoring the hands that attempted to hold him back. 

He did not care if there were ten or thousands of the creatures, nor if their leader could easily squash him in the blink of an eye – he would not let anyone touch the hobbit. He would _die_ before he let anyone so much as touch one hair on Bilbo´s head. He would protect his One at all costs. And he would protect his nephews. 

Thorin lifted his chin and raised his glare to the deformed shape on the throne.

“Well look who it is! Thorin. Son of Thrain. Son of Thror … “ The Great Goblin seemed highly amused. “King under the Mountain!” Or so his flourishing, mocking bow would suggest. The dwarf king seethed quietly, attempting to keep his temper in check. He needed to think of his company. His kin. His – He could not afford any unwise risks, no matter how tempted he was to cut off the goblin´s head with one powerful swing of his sword. He - 

“Oh, but I forget! You have no mountain.” Thorin stiffened. “Which makes you … no-one, really.” 

_For Bilbo, for Bilbo, for Bilbo, for Bilbo ..._

“Excuse me!”

\- who had a death wish.

Apparently.

And it could not wait until he met a dragon.

Had his approach to courting the hobbit really been so flawed?

~ ~ ~ ~

He was not going to stand for it.

No, certainly not. 

He was a hobbit and hobbits did not tolerate their loved ones – yes, well. No need to get into that _now_ , thank you very much! It was private. Personal. And he´d certainly not discuss anything private or personal with anyone who had taken to poking him with swords and pulling his hair and _shoving_ him and – being subjected to ridicule in public! 

And Thorin _was_ a king.

He was _King_.

So he may not be in the possession of an actual, physical throne at that very moment, or indeed a mountain, but no-one who had spent even a mere moment in the dwarf´s company could doubt his _presence_ , the way he commanded respect without any actual use of words, his royal bearing and his leadership. Yes, he had a tiresome temper and was prone to brooding and his sense of direction had better be left out of the quotation but the dwarf cared for those under his rule – had cared for them from a very young age when responsibility had been thrown at him first at the hands of a dragon and then at the death of his grandfather and the disappearance of his father; for all his grouching and grumbling and snarling and stubbornness the dwarf took his responsibilities seriously, he shouldered burden after burden and Bilbo was going to be very, _very_ cross with that unattractively overweight (and hobbits _liked_ a bit of roundness around the middle region!) and unpleasantly scented accumulation of grotesqueness if he did not stop being so very _insulting_ that instant!

He did not care if he should be had for a snack if it meant he would bring his point across, thank you.

The hobbit walked up straight in front of the dwarf king and crossed his small arms.

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit was going to kill him.

The hobbit was out to kill him as a punishment for failing to observe the most basic hobbit-ish courting customs.

There was no other way to interpret the company´s burglar, Thorin´s One, marching up to the Goblin King without compunction and folding his arms in front of his small chest while favouring the much bigger being with a Baggins Glare (which was what his inane sister-sons had taken to referring to the look the hobbit would direct at either one of them, or both, and towards most members of the company, himself included, at least once a day. And which was rather adorable.) that Thorin would have enjoyed observing had it made an appearance at any other time.

And the hobbit had swatted his hand away when he attempted to stop him, to _shield_ him!

Twice!

If they should make it out alive of the underground kingdom he would grab the hobbit and drag him off to - 

“Rude? You think I´m _rude_ , little hobbit?”

Bend him over his knee.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was having none of that.

And if the dwarves had only a little common sense they would use the general atmosphere of what could, on the whole, be described as stunned silence – as much as goblins could take to silence, the hobbit supposed – and Do Something.

Attack.

Run.

 _Flee_.

Leave him to distract the unappetising being and be on their merry way.

But no – _Thorin_ kept trying to draw him back and to shout at both himself and the Great Goblin on his throne – and Bilbo felt not at all inclined to consider the stupid dwarf´s concern in any way endearing or helpful, thank you -, _Dwalin_ was offering threats and promises if anyone should dare to lay as much as a finger on him (and that _was_ a little touching, yes) and there seemed to be a general consensus that was that each dwarf of the company had to at least inform the assembled goblins once that they would regret it if they did anything to Their Hobbit. Loudly.

Wonderful.

Really.

He was going to have to have a serious conversation with them about _opportunities_ and _moments_ and _leaving_ hobbits who were not nearly as necessary for any quests, on the whole, behind if it meant they could get to their lonely mountains after all. Speedily. Well, yes, there was the small matter of the courtship and everything but - 

Thorin would be safe.

The boys would be safe.

His friends would be safe.

And that included both Oin and Bofur, whose attempts at explaining the situation while not explaining the situation had left Bilbo with something close to a headache. 

But no – they had to choose to _mother_ him.

Really. 

_Dwarves._

“Cut off his head!”

Wait – _what?!_

~ ~ ~ ~

_“Bilbo!”_

~~ ~ ~

Thorin had _bellowed_.

It had taken the combined strength of Dwalin, Dori and Gloin to stop him from jumping over the bridge to go after the fallen hobbit; his nephews, themselves pale and with eyes wide, entreating him to go on, to follow Gandalf out to safety, tears shimmering in both their eyes as Balin, with gentle firmness, insisted that they would not be able to help their burglar and that Thorin had a duty.

The blue eyes glared at the older dwarf in defiance, willing his old mentor to challenge him.

“Uncle -”

It was Kili´s soft voice that eventually made the king deflate. 

For a moment, he seemed entirely lost. 

Helpless. 

“Balin – , he began, in a tone as broken as not even those who knew him best, knew him longest, had ever heard before. Not after Erebor, not after Azanulbizar. 

The older dwarf put a hand on a tense arm.

“I know, laddie. But not now.”

The unrelenting gaze seemed to eventually shift something within the dwarf. His expression turned to stone, his body straightened.

Then - 

“Lead us out, wizard.”


	6. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo escapes Goblin Town. With a little help.
> 
> Thorin won´t give up on his hobbit. And also gets offered a little help. 
> 
> They meet again.
> 
> And have words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No One Ring in this story, my lovelies, no Gollum either. In case you didn´t notice the additional tags last time. I thought about this long and hard, it troubled me a lot, and eventually decided to go with what I felt comfortable with and with what I think goes better with my approach to writing, shall we call it. I hope you´ll nevertheless enjoy what I´m doing with this.
> 
> Thank you for reading. And thank God I can go back to the full, proper fluff with the next chapter.

There were sounds.

And badly muffled whispering.

Bilbo opened one suffering eye, only to immediately squeeze it shut again.

Not _those_ two.

And must the one – Elladan? Elrohir? - that was leaning over his prone form smile like _that_?

Moreover - 

“Look, Elrohir -” Elladan then. Wonderful. “It´s our hobbit. Can we keep him _now_?”

Keep – _what_ , no, no, no! He was not going to be a kept hobbit! Or a pet hobbit. Or both. Neither. And especially not where those two elves were concerned. The only one who would possibly be allowed to keep him was the dwarf king Bilbo was going to have very, very many words with. Later. When his head showed less of an inclination to pretend it had been used as a training device by young dwarves desiring to learn the complex art of head-butting. And when he had found the blasted dwarf again. And the rest of his company.

Tumbling down cave floors that suddenly opened beneath one was all very well and good, if it could not be avoided, and under different circumstances he would not have minded finding himself spread out flat on a certain dwarf king´s lovely torso but there had been rather too many spectators around. 

Who had started pulling and poking and shoving and screeching at them.

How _rude_.

~ ~ ~ ~

Keep him.

Really.

“You most certainly are _not_ going to keep me! Neither of you! Thank you!”

The two elves looked at each other and then simultaneously smiled at the hobbit in such a manner as made all of Bilbo´s instincts – pre-hobbit-exposed-to-dwarves and those acquired and honed during the quest thus far (an ever increasing, if entirely understandable number!) – go on instant alert.

No.

To whatever it was those two were planning.

And really – he was going to have to apologise to the Durin princes, once he had found them again, because at least those boys had the courtesy to not at all resemble each other and make a poor hobbit´s head spin just from looking at them, never mind any additional inanities!

What were they even doing here?

Wherever that _here_ was because Bilbo very much remembered falling off a bridge in the tunnels while an army of goblins had been hot in pursuit of the company and reappeared wizard; Thorin shouting his name as one such nasty exemplary had jumped at him, but he had no recollection of how he had ended up waking to the sight of a dark-haired elf leaning over him in what would appear to be sunlight?

Ugh.

Honestly.

The next time he should be approached by someone with regards to going on a harebrained expedition of an adventure just for the sake of enjoying a largely courting-challenged courtship with that someone he was going to grab that someone by his collar and drag that someone into Bag End (and by Bag End he meant his bedroom, thank you very much, because _really_ -!) to see to the whole ridiculous process in peace and quiet and solitude and without any disruptions by kin, company, wizards, trolls, wargs, orcs and goblins.

Not to mention _elves_.

And if they kept smiling at him like that he was going to – _ow_!

The hobbit touched the bruise on the back of his head. And grimaced.

Oh, this was just - 

“Finders keepers, Master Hobbit.”

Bilbo glared at the elf. And that had been Elrohir. He was certain. Almost.

“Can you just go away? And _don´t_ poke me!” He swatted at the hand of the other twin, which had reached out to explore various parts of his body. “I am not a pin cushion!” 

“Peace, Bilbo. We only mean to make certain that you did not sustain more injuries than it would appear, now that you are awake. Although -” The cheeky sod of an insolent elfling continued - “We will not make any promises as to your mind, of course.”

“My mind was perfectly fine before you two came along!” The hobbit huffed and made to stand, swaying a little as he righted himself and glaring at the hands that reached out to steady him. Finding himself rudely ignored, of course. “What are you even doing here?”

“We are happy to see you as well.” Elladan had apparently finished his inspection of the grumpy hobbit. He nodded. “Nothing appears to be broken. How did you come to lie about in a goblin cave, Bilbo?”

“I fell. How did you come to loiter about in the Misty Mountains? Does Lord Elrond even _know_ what you two are up to when out of his sight?”

“We were hunting orcs. And Father does not discourage our _interest_ as long as we conduct ourselves with the necessary propriety.”

The hobbit could be heard mumbling to himself about suicidal elflings who had no regard for the state of poor, unsuspecting hobbits and sprung themselves upon them without so much as by their leave and if they thought he was in any mood to let them cuddle him again they were going to be very much - 

His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him.

“ _Thorin_.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He wasn´t even going to consider it.

He refused to even consider it.

There was no possibility that his hobbit was not alive.

Bilbo had not died.

He would not die.

He was not _allowed_ to die.

He was not allowed to die and _leave_ Thorin - 

Mahal could not, would not be so cruel as to take his greatest treasure away from him. 

The hobbit had defied trolls, wargs, orcs; had put his small hands on his hips in front of the Great Goblin (defending Thorin´s _honour_! Thorin had wanted to strangle him.) - his hobbit was not going to perish in a dark, cold goblin cave. 

Thorin would not let him.

Balin could say what he wished, he was not going to leave Bilbo Baggins for dead. Not for his mountain, not for his throne, not for all the gold in Erebor. 

And when he found the hobbit – and find him he would! - he was going to murder him.

And then bind him to his bed.

And never let him leave it again.

His fist closed around the object in his hand.

He would not lose him. He - 

“Ya mother´s ring?”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king stared at the delicate silver item in his hand.

His mother had gifted him the ring when he had come of age, all those many years ago, in the understanding that he would present it to his chosen one when the time should come.

Thorin had kept the ring, had treasured it, even when he had long given up any hope that there would be such a dwarf for him. And there never had been. For his One was a -

Hobbit.

And Freya would have adored him. 

She would have adored Bilbo Baggins for his manners and his politeness that stood in constant conflict with his cheekiness and temper. Or that may just apply to himself, the king acknowledged with a little smile. His hobbit was perfectly proper and respectful towards most beings he met; it only seemed to be Thorin who regularly caused his ire and discontent. 

His mother would have adored Bilbo Baggins for not cowering before Thorin, for treating him as any other dwarf – hobbit – dwobbit? - for his love of nature and complete, if not always fully intended, disregard of dwarven conventions. And she would have taken her axe to anyone who as much as dared to criticise the hobbit for being _hobbit-ish._

And she would have cuffed her eldest son for his failures in his courtship of his One. 

Repeatedly. 

Hard. 

He was going to make up for them. Once he found his hobbit. 

~ ~ ~ ~

“No.”

“Dwalin.”

Thick arms crossed resolutely before a massive chest.

“Give it up, ya majesty. If ya think I´m going to let ya back into those tunnels on ya own I´ll have ta assume ya got ya head bashed in when I wasn´t lookin´!”

“He is my _One._ My _heart_.” The king´s voice was dangerously low. “Am I to desert him? To leave Master Baggins to his fate? To _forget_ him? Would you ask me to -” 

“I´m askin´ ya to get it into ya thick head that I´m coming with ya! Mahal knows ya will only shout at tha burglar again and make him all flustered and bothered instead of doing tha thing properly!” The bald warrior eyed his king in mild reproof. “Ya´d think ya majesty´d have put that ring on that little finger at this stage. Very patient sort, that hobbit is.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I do _not_ shout!” were the words his majesty shouted after his friend, once his senses had recovered from the various accusations thrown at his noble head.

And having grasped the other dwarf´s arm in a firm, grateful hold.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You _lost_ the dwarves?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

Really, he was very grateful to the two elves for finding him and taking the time out of their idiotic orc-hunt schedule to carry him out of that cave and for looking after him until he woke from having been knocked out due to hit to his head – and he was still a little wobbly in the same, thank you very much, or he would never have let those two float alongside him on his search for the company. And he had not _lost_ anyone, they had been _separated_. Temporarily. Unwillingly. 

“No, I did _not_ lose them! I just – well, yes, I suppose so but -”

“Do we want to find them?”, the other twin enquired, in what Bilbo was going to accuse him of being a very hopeful tone of voice, in a minute or so. And _not_ the right kind of hopeful! 

They were as bad as Fili and Kili. And that was very, very bad. For him. Because as bad as Fili and Kili were, Bilbo had come to adore those silly boys. And now he was in a fair way of being obliged to deal with the unhappy knowledge that he was developing something akin to fondness for the Peredhil twins, too! 

Because as much as they were older than himself, they were still barely adults and that made their presence very dangerous for a hobbit because a hobbit could not but feel he had to _look_ after them and keep them out of scrapes and really – he had enough to do keeping _himself_ out of scrapes at that present moment and - 

He wanted Thorin.

The blasted dwarf.

Oh, he would have words for him. Many words. And after enjoying them, he would throw himself at the stupid dwarf and hug him and pull his braids so that his mouth would come within proper hobbit reach and - 

Yes, well.

He would just blame it on the bump on his head. And moreover - 

“At ease, Bilbo.” On of the twins – Elladan, the hobbit thought (Honestly. He was going to ask them to put some ribbons into their identical hair. Or something. He would quite like to be able to tell which twin he was dealing with!) - had put a calming hand on top of the honey coloured curls, smiling gently down at the huffing hobbit. “Thorin Oakenshield would not continue on without you. He threatened to strike down poor Elrohir when Prince Kili mentioned my brother had offered to have some berries brought to you.”

“And he promised to _gut_ Elladan for putting that blanket over you when you fell asleep in father´s library. Dwarves are so unrefined”, the younger twin mused, seemingly unperturbed by the threat to his person. “Are you certain you wish to continue looking for them, Bilbo? Father would be happy for you to stay at Imladris!“

„Indeed“, Elladan continued where his twin had left off, „We may yet turn around and make our way through the Mountains before night falls. You would have our protection, Master Hobbit, and -“

Bilbo came to an immediate halt.

He turned to face the twin that had last spoken to him, his fists balled on his hips even as he had to crane his poor neck in order to look up into the serene, innocent face.

Oh, as if he – they! - were fooling anyone!

„I am _not_ going to listen to any disparaging remarks about _my_ dwarves, you two! And I will thank you to respect that I am _courting_ their _king_! Who was probably very much in his right when he threatened to do those things to you –“ The hobbit narrowed his eyes into an even fiercer glare at the glimmer of a smile on the afflicted elf´s face - “- even if I am going to have _words_ with him about being so _rude_! - and I wish to be with them again as soon as possible so either you will help me find them or -” The small arms removed themselves from the hips to cross in front of a chest - “- you go back to doing whatever it was you have been doing to those poor orcs. I am _sure_ they will not mind your inanities. They must be used to them if poking at orcs (and goblins!) is your favourite pastime. And that is all I have to say to you so – so – I will search on now. Thank you.”

And with that, Bilbo Baggins swiftly turned around to stomp on further along the forest path, leaving two unashamedly amused elves in his wake.

~ ~ ~ ~

“He still lives, Balin. I am _sure_ of it.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The old dwarf sighed.

They all wished their burglar had not met his death in the goblin tunnels but there was little hope that anyone, much less such a little, unhardened creature as their hobbit, had survived such a fall. It grieved Balin to be forced to do this but they could not afford to also lose their King, their _leader_ , on this journey. 

“Laddie, we all grieve for our hobbit but Master Baggins _fell_. Even if he should, by some miracle, have survived, there are hundreds of goblins – it would be _foolishness_ to return to these tunnels. We will honour Bilbo Baggins; you will _mourn_ him, but you must not lose sight of what you need to do. You are _King_ , Thorin.”

“I will not -”

“Erebor needs its King, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin swung around and directed all his anger and fury at the taller being, ignoring how it seemed that Gandalf the Grey had aged another hundred years within the span of the last hour.

“This is all your fault, wizard! _You_ brought me to the West! _You_ made certain that I met the hobbit! _You_ showed me what my life could -” There was such raw pain in the voice of the dwarf that the rest of the company shrank back from its fierceness, tears glistening in the eyes of the younger ones. “If Bilbo Baggins is dead”, the king´s voice had adopted a low, shaking tone - “There will be no happiness in regaining the throne for me.”

He then turned his back to the wizard and refastened his bracers.

“Dwalin, I suggest we -”

~ ~ ~ ~

Whatever it had been that the king had wished to suggest to the warrior, it was lost under the loud howls that came from further up the forest slope.

~ ~ ~ ~

That dwarf.

That – that - 

Stupid, insufferable, idiotic, suicidal _dwarf_!

How _dare_ he be so utterly – _moronic_!

Clearly Bilbo should not leave him to his own devices for even five minutes at a time when the result of such neglect was that of His Majesty running down a fire-streaked path to face a Pale Orc on an even paler warg On His Bloody Own!

He knew all about the history between Azog and the Line of Durin, thank you very much, but that did not give his entirely imbecilic suitor the right to risk his life without consulting anyone beforehand on whether his further presence in that anyone´s life was Very Much A Necessity.

Yes, and clearly that entirely moronic, imbecilic, stupid, suicidal state of mind had a tendency of rubbing off on hitherto quite sensible, respectable, sane hobbits because - 

Bilbo Baggins found himself staring down the Pale Orc.

His letter opener of a sword raised before him.

Well, more being waved about, really, but he supposed nit-picking wasn´t strictly the order of the day at that present moment.

Oh, he was going to have so many words for Thorin Oakenshield.

If they should get out of this alive.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You. What were you doing? You nearly got yourself _killed_!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you, Bilbo.

I am so happy to see you, Bilbo.

I am so glad that you are unhurt, Bilbo.

I missed you, Bilbo.

I will never do such a stupid thing again, Bilbo.

Bilbo would have been very happy to listen to any of these. Or some of them. Or all of them.

What he was most definitely, certainly, resolutely, absolutely _not_ happy to even lend the tip of a pointed ear to was the stream of reproach and accusation and insults the – Eru be thanked! - awakened dwarf saw fit to direct at him. 

Oh no, certainly _not_.

He was going to acquaint this dwarf with his opinion of his opinions and he was going to do it Right Now.

Really - 

“Me? _I_ am causing trouble? Let me tell you, Thorin Oakenshield -” The thoroughly fed up hobbit had drawn himself up to his full height; entirely uncaring of his – depending where one let his eyes travel to – gaping, embarrassed, disbelieving and worried audience (the _snickering_ definitely came from the general direction of the two elves and Bilbo was going to address _them_ later; no matter how they had not hesitated to join in the fight and had greatly helped to keep the orcs at bay before they were all taken up by the eagles), and glared at the fuming dwarf with all the dignity he was able to muster. Exhausted, tired, sore and in need of an embrace by strong arms as he was.

“ _You_ are the one who is incapable of thinking _before_ taking to any sort of action! Or did you think it was a _brilliant_ idea to engage Azog in battle having just escaped from an army of goblins and with the stupid orc sitting on his decidedly unfluffy pet? You – you _stupid_ dwarf!”, the exasperated hobbit all but shouted, grabbing his hair with both hands and taking to pacing on top of the cliff. “Oh _why_ did I even come back?!”

The silence was as sudden as it was deafening. Bilbo looked up to see the dwarf king staring at him stone-faced, his voice almost raspy when he spoke again.

“Why did you come back?”

Why did he - 

Now - _really_!

If _that_ did not take the biscuit!

That - 

That - 

Bilbo was going to - 

“Why – because I _love_ you, you cloth-head!”


	7. Scratch Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is healing.
> 
> And petting.
> 
> And botany.
> 
> And courting.
> 
> And a little panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. Have some fluff. And then some more fluff. Or something. 
> 
> Also - I am a cat person. If I can smuggle a cat into somewhere I will smuggle a cat into somewhere.

The dwarf grunted at the huffed sound that came from the cargo in his arms as he navigated his way outside.

“Yes, but I have need of them. Or Dain will be King. Don´t scratch me.”

The ginger cat squirmed and rearranged its fluffy form so as to be able to nuzzle against a firm chest, mewling softly.

“So you say. But he is _my_ hobbit. I will not tolerate any usurpers.” A thick finger then stroked behind one folded ear. “You will do well to find yourself warming to the -” 

_Elves._

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had eyed the _thing_ in his hobbit´s arms with suspicion mixed with disbelief mixed with a hint of revulsion.

“Why?”

“Because I have had quite enough of watching your nephews and those twins caterwauling when she will scratch and swat at them again! Not that I blame her but Kili´s wounded puppy eyes are quite enough for one hobbit, I don´t _need_ four times their onslaught on an hourly basis.”

The king eyed the soft-furred creature that had unceremoniously been lowered onto his bed and was now studying him with what he felt absolutely certain was malicious intent. Though he would not back down from a cat, no matter how long this staring contest should take!

“She will scratch _me_.”

The feline´s eyes opened wide as if to suggest she was shocked at the insinuation and how could any human even _entertain_ such grossly exaggerated views on the matter of her personal inclinations. 

Of course Bilbo had gone and practically adopted the ginger beast the moment the skinchanger had pointed him towards the kitchen where the thing - creature. Cat. Fur ball. - had been reclining in front of the fire, fluffy tail swishing to and fro leisurely. And he had _not_ just applied any such degrading term – to his kingly pride - as _fluffy_ to it. And if he had he was going to refuse to admit to it. Ever.

And he was _petting_ it.

_Again._

When it was _Thorin_ who was in need of his petting. 

Care. 

Attention. 

The _cat_ could go and plague his nephews. And the elves. 

Especially the elves.

It was enough of a strain on his temper that they were still _there_. Especially as they had somehow managed to ingratiate themselves with his heirs. Whom he was going to have to disinherit. Dain could be king. At least Dain would not see fit to consort with - 

The king froze.

“Bilbo.”

“Oh don´t be such a ninny, Thorin! She _likes_ you!”

Favouring his heartless One, who had started to busy himself preparing another of the concoctions Oin saw fit to make go down his protesting throat – and which had made him doubt the merit of his hobbit´s declaration on top of the Carrock because he had unfeelingly insisted on Thorin´s partaking of them - with a glare, the dwarf looked down at the creature that had taken possession of his unwilling lap. At least there was still a sheet between himself and that - For his protection. And his dignity. 

And he really had no idea why his hand had resorted to continuing where the hobbit had let off.

And the _thing_ was _purring_.

Contentedly.

Loudly.

In his lap.

Thorin smirked, tickling the approving creature behind one ear.

If only the elves were there to witness his triumph!

If only _Bilbo_ had been there to witness his triumph but no, he was going to have to complain about being rudely neglected because the hobbit had merely seen fit to dispose of the animal and to order him to swallow that vile brew he kept being informed was _restorative_ and to unceremoniously – and that brief touch of his lips to the king´s frowning forehead certainly did not count! - stalk out of the chamber again.

What did a King have to do to receive the attention he deserved?

~ ~ ~ ~

The elves, if his majesty should have cared to be informed, were otherwise engaged at that moment.

With the king´s heirs.

Who, once an oath had practically been sworn that they had no intention whatsoever of _stealing_ whom the two young dwarves had taken to refer to as their Future Hobbity Uncle from the company, had adjusted their line of thinking so far as to acknowledge that they were not _that_ bad, seeing they _had_ looked after their Future Hobbity Uncle and _had_ protected him during his search of _them_. And moreover – and rather importantly! - they enjoyed - 

_Pranks._

If their hobbit´s disappointed voice and stern look (Uncle Bilbo was so _cute_!) had not quite, fully, absolutely convinced them of there being any merit in the two overgrown trees, it had been the happy realisation that the elves were _fun_.

And it was a very good thing that Uncle Thorin had been largely laid up in the bedroom Beorn had provided him with to properly treat and recover from his injuries – much to the king´s grumbling displeasure and at their hobbit´s entreating insistence (the exclamations of _insufferable hobbit!_ and _unscrupulous tormentor_ and _stubborn halfling_ losing quite a lot of their tendency to wound when one instantly, if growlingly, complied with the hobbit-ish commands that alternated between hopeful requests and direct threats) – because Mahal help them if he should catch them sparing with _elves_! And, uhm, those other things.

Such as - 

Coating Bofur´s hat with honey.

Putting a braid into a sleeping Ori´s hair and finishing it off with a flower.

Dori had nearly thrown a fit at the idea that anyone would dare to lay claim to -

Pinching one of Dwalin´s knuckle-dusters and putting it into Nori´s bag. (Although Kili resolutely maintained that was actually being _helpful_ , no matter how much their hobbit had been tapping his foot. Which had also been _cute_.)

And such completely harmless, innocent pastimes.

And then there had been the moment when they had been about to prank their bear of a host.

Only for their host to happen upon them.

In front of his beehive.

The two dwarves never wanted to see a bee again as long as they lived. And they suspected neither did Elladan and Elrohir only they had presented a much more stoical front when faced with the calm, speaking wrath of the resident skinchanger.

They had long legs. If it came to it. Taking flight-wise.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Hm. Tolerable, I suppose. For a dwarf.”

Kili drew the string again, making another arrow fly towards the makeshift target. “You are just jealous the cat liked me more.” 

“It liked _Bilbo_ more.”

“Everyone likes _Bilbo_.” Fili pulled the arrow out of the tree trunk, inspecting it with dubious interest. “Flimsy. You had better stick with yours, Kee. And you still can´t have him, elf.”

Elladan smiled, bending down to return his own arrows into their quiver.

“So I inferred from King Thorin. His majesty was quite precise on his opinion of being separated from his One. I confess I quite like my head where it is.”

“And it´s such a pretty one, too!”. Elrohir was quick to reassure his sibling, not bothering to look up from his inspection of the dwarven bow in his hand, which had held his interest for the past minutes.

“Thank you.”

Kili looked between the two brothers and then frowned.

“It´s no different from yours.”

Two elven brows went up in mild astonishment, the bow apparently forgotten.

“Are you expressing your interest in my person, Master Dwarf?”

There was a snort.

“You´re an _elf_.”

One of the elf´s very mobile brows went even higher.

“Oh shove it”. Kili rolled his eyes and gave the elf a little push as he made his way past the same to collect his arrows. “Either of you would have to grow a beard first to be considered attractive to any dwarf!”

“Beards are undesirable”, Elrohir returned, shaking his head with wonderful phlegm. “I shall never understand your kind´s obsession with all that hair. Does it not scratch when you -” He let his eyes travel over Kili´s form. Slowly. Then - “ _Kiss_?”

“What?! _No!_ I mean - _yes_!”, the dwarf spluttered, his cheeks having gone interestingly red. A little. Because of the sun. “But -” Kili crossed his arms, glaring up at the smiling elf defiantly. “I am _not_ going to kiss _you_! Elf.”

The elf favoured the flustered dwarf with a smile that suggested thoughts along the lines of We Shall See and then turned away to address his twin in the language of his kind, leaving Kili to direct big, confused, questioning, You Are My Brother And You Have To Do Something- eyes at his own sibling.

“Fili -”

“ _Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

It was rather difficult to not gape or stare – depending on which party of the two parties one referred to – at the sight of the King under the Mountain. Standing before them. Surrounded by various assortments of botany.

Trees. 

Animals. 

Oversized insects.

Posture all regal and commanding. A glare being his favoured choice of expression.

With a cat curled up in his arms. 

The cat that had resisted any attempt whatsoever at befriending on the parts of both dwarven and elven siblings. Protestingly. Violently.

And now it was purring.

Happily.

In the king´s hold.

Who was stroking it.

How - 

Fili was the first to recover.

“Uhm... Uncle, you - we were just - ”

The king directed his glare at his heir for a brief moment and then let his eyes travel across his younger nephew until it reached the two elves.

And one elf in particular.

Whom the cold blue eyes fixed on.

Determindedly.

Appraisingly.

Until a displeased, demanding little head resolutely butted the firm chest. The owner of which being increasingly displeased by the lack of attention to its ear and not at all ashamed of making its discontent known. As it were.

Thorin briefly narrowed his eyes at the creature in his arms, then directed them back up at the seemingly unrepentant elf.

Who suddenly found himself with an armful of mewling, wriggling feline and the recommendation to feed the same if he did not care for further injury.

~ ~ ~ ~

The protestations of his wounded nephews – how could their Uncle not trust _them_ with the cat but hand her over to a _tree_ -shagger! - fell onto deaf ears as the king went in search of his hobbit.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin finally found his hobbit curled up underneath a shady tree.

Asleep.

And the small creature looked utterly peaceful.

And adorable.

And – small.

The dwarf frowned.

Had the hobbit always been that small?

Something reared in his chest that was very like a predominating urge to cherish and to hold and to protect.

Definitely to protect.

And to hold.

And cherish.

And – if the dwarf was quite honest with himself and seeing that he was very much alone with a sleeping burglar and his thoughts he did not feel he had to muster any energy whatsoever to waste upon anything his hobbit would deem Propriety or Respectability – to wrap himself around the hobbit and reacquaint himself with that lovely, responsive spot along the soft neck which he had been itching to explore again ever since he had first found it those many weeks ago in Bag End.

He was allowed to now, surely.

He could lean down and lower his head and nuzzle the golden curls and the soft, beardless cheek and let his mouth travel - 

But he had promised himself he was not going to repeat his mistakes. Not that getting better acquainted with the hobbit´s softness and roundness and those little mewls and sounds he made when - 

He was very _much_ going to reacquaint himself with all that. 

But his hobbit - _Bilbo_ \- needed rest.

This small, fragile, gentle creature had been battling orcs (and Thorin had quite a number of things to say on _that_ subject still! How _dare_ Bilbo throw himself -), running from wargs, tricking trolls, cozying up to elves (and _that_ he still had a number of things to say to, too! Elves. Hmpf.), marching across Middle Earth, keeping Fili and Kili in line ( _Mahal_ knew that that was nigh impossible and required a firm hand. And glaring. And growling. And threatening. And an inexhaustible amount of patience. Which Thorin did not possess – and scoffed at - so he usually jumped the patient route and addressed matters in rather more comprehensible manner from the start. Which had served quite well thus far, on the whole. Even if his hobbit preferred to take a decidedly undwarvenish approach. Which worked wonders on his two hellions. Unsurprisingly. The king found it very hard to resist that adorable wagging finger himself. And those small hands planted on those invitingly round hips. And when the hobbit looked at a dwarf with just _that_ expression -) and had taken to mothering _him_ ; telling His Majesty to Stop Being Stubborn and to Do What Oin Says and to Not Behave Like A Fauntling (Thorin had taken great, _stubborn_ pleasure in informing his meticulous hobbit that that would be _dwarfling_ ) and to Stay On That Bed Or He Would Be Very, Very Cross!

Thorin had decided to humour his fussy little love.

And not at all because being chewed on by a warg had had any effects worthy of being acknowledged on his person. And the same went for encounters with any goblins in their tunnels. He was a _dwarf_.

If any wounds he may have sustained during the past days were affecting him they were completely negligible. He was only willing to recline on that bed to please his One. And if that meant having to endure having his hair tucked behind his ear and his forehead felt for any temperature and his temple bathed with a soft, wet cloth by a ridiculously small hand and the bandages Oin had seen fit to plaster his body with regularly being changed by the same hand and its twin and being spoken to like a faunt- _dwarf_ ling and imbecile, alternatingly, he would endure it and not say a word about it.

As long as his hobbit continued to crawl up onto the bed with him and put his head on his chest or let Thorin put his own into his lap and ran those gentle, soothing fingers through his hair.

He was King.

He was willing to compromise.

Sometimes.

If there was a point in it.

And close contact with Bilbo Baggins was always a good point. 

A very tempting one at that very moment.

Was his hobbit even allowed to be so irresistibly alluring in his sleep?

He was tempting him even when asleep.

With his cute little nose and his curly hair and so very soft little mouth and -

Minx.

Bilbo would soon learn that - 

_No._

He was going to use his self-control, to remember that he was King and to let his beloved sleep.

And to watch over him.

While he slept.

He should not be out alone, there was no saying what might be lurking anywhere. And try to harm the hobbit. Or _steal_ him.

So Thorin was just going to lower himself onto the grass, in his loose shirt and trousers, and sit there and watch his hobbit rest and - 

Hm.

He supposed he _could_ do it.

Seeing it was tradition.

A requisite, really.

Expected.

Of the suitor.

Him.

And there was no-one around to witness it.

If one took to discounting gigantic bees and similar atrocities.

Like - 

_Elves._

The cat would surely scratch them.

Again.

Thorin had every faith she would.

Even if they _had_ looked after his hobbit.

And joined in the fight.

He grudgingly supposed that made them somewhat acceptable.

Which meant he was entertaining positive thoughts about _elves_.

Mahal _wept_.

~ ~ ~ ~

The king growled.

He would bully his council into passing a law that forbade the use – the _existence_! - of any botany within the confines of the mountain once he had reclaimed his throne.

No matter what any hobbits close to his hardened heart might have to say on the subject.

This was - 

Torture.

This was - 

Ludicrous.

Annoying.

Tiresome.

Beneath him.

And his dignity.

And - 

_Hopeless._

Bilbo might have said – or rather more shouted – that he loved him but one look at his sad attempts at performing even the simplest hobbit-ish courting ritual and - 

Thorin took malicious pleasure in throwing the dissatisfying fruit of his labour onto what had become a rather impressive pile of - 

Flower wreaths.

Crowns.

And none of them had been good enough for his hobbit.

He was only going to put a perfect crown on his hobbit´s head.

The colours would have to suit the colouring of his curls (honey; with a tendency to shine almost golden when fully exposed to the brightness of the sun) and compliment his eyes. (Thorin _liked_ looking into his hobbit´s eyes. Except for when they were glaring at him. Although he liked looking into them even then. And he was never going to admit that to his hobbit.) And it had to be an even arrangement. A proper circle. Nothing … lopsided. Askew. Irregular.

Thorin grunted, letting his gaze travel over the rapidly diminishing accumulation of quite an impressive number of different kinds of botany he had carefully plucked from the skinchanger´s collection and arranged neatly before him. He was nothing if not painstaking in all his endeavours. 

And he was going to fashion Bilbo Baggins a circlet that would forever put the thought of any flowery impostors out of his mind. The gems he was going to use would - _OW!_

The king eyed the spiky little flower with loathing.

It had _stung_ him.

He was King.

Nothing was allowed to _sting_ him.

If orcs and goblins were not allowed to stab him with their weapons a _rose_ most definitely was not either. 

It did not even smell nice.

It was giving him a headache.

It had to go. 

Bilbo would never know.

Thorin reached for the prickly offender again to dispose of it to where it could not take to any further insolence and - 

Swore.

~ ~ ~ ~

“What have you done now, you silly dwarf?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nope.

Still the same.

His mind must clearly be befuddled from his prolonged nap under the half-shaded tree because it suggested to him that Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Lonely Mountain, was currently sitting close to him, on the grass, an array of flowers sorted into small piles before him and - 

Arranging the same into a crown.

Yes, and he was apparently still more than half-asleep because there seemed to be quite a number of unfinished – oh, that one actually looked finished! Even if a little, uhm, experimental, perhaps - decorative headwear within tossing distance of the dwarf. The dwarf who had folded his arms (and did that not make an unexpectedly lovely picture, with his seating position of choice being one of crossed legs and that mulishly affronted expression on the handsome face! Not that Bilbo was in any way partial but Thorin really made the most endearing -) did not dignify to answer the question.

Bilbo – being a hobbit – had no difficulty detecting the source of his dwarf´s rather too rude expletive. Not that he could tell anyone which, precisely, had been chosen as Thorin, in typical Thorin-fashion, had elected to resort to his own language but Bilbo had been around the dwarves long enough to be able to tell from the precise tone of grunt, growl or snarl how much _feeling_ was behind it. And the king´s outburst had been very - 

Not that it mattered at all at that present moment.

There were much more interesting and important matters that needed his attention.

Matters such as -

Thorin was making flower crowns.

Thorin was making flower crowns for him.

Presumably.

He was the only hobbit around and no-one else among the silly company would sink themselves so low as to sport any such confection on their rude heads. And he was also the only hobbit around who was being courted by the king. And who may have mentioned that vital part of hobbit courting. 

And Thorin had not only listened but was now sitting there, on Beorn´s land; thick, calloused fingers attempting to inspire various matching and non-matching flowers into obedience. 

Carnations, camellias, roses, daises, poppies, daffodils, forget me nots, lilies, peonies.

Right.

He was going to have to subject his dwarf to a lesson in botany.

Clearly.

After - 

“Oh Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Hm.

Perhaps he would not ban any botany from Erebor after all.

If the mere sight of it inspired the hobbit to throw himself at his person and nearly topple him over into the soft grass and -

The botany could stay.

If it meant the hobbit would take his face in both his hands and claim his mouth in a kiss such as would - 

He would have to adapt that law.

Botany would be permitted within the mountain, but only in places that were strictly reserved for the king and his consort.

He was _not_ overly protective.

Or worried.

Or exaggerating.

Or _jealous_.

Thorin scoffed at the notion.

But Bilbo was beautiful and adorable and lovely and _his_ and he was a dwarf and the only being who would be gifting the hobbit with flowers and earn his kisses was -

“Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king, somewhat dazed from the pleasurable turn his afternoon had taken, looked up at the smaller being, who had moved to put some distance between them again and was standing over the dwarf.

Which Thorin did not like at all. Bilbo should kneel down again and continue – but he was expected to answer, apparently. Hm.

“Hm?”

And now the hobbit smiled at him in just that way. That way that always made Thorin want to haul him into his arms and throw him onto his bed – or bed roll, he was long past being particular in that regard – and Thorin was going to have to inform him that he considered it very teasing of his hobbit to-

“I asked – why so many?”

So many – ah.

That.

There may have been a hint of a red stain on the king´s cheek as he observe the – carnage.

Then he straightened. Or as much as one could, while still sitting on a patch of grass.

“They were unfitting for the future Consort of Erebor. I will not present you with anything less than perfection, Master Baggins.”

And he fervently hoped that that latest attempt at perfection would prove to be just that because - 

“Bilbo?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Consort.

Of Erebor.

He was going to be Consort of Erebor.

Consort of Thorin.

Who was the King of Erebor.

Or would be.

Once the tiny matter of a dragon had been taken care of.

Right.

Yes.

Well.

That thought had quite - 

It may have quite escaped - 

Well, there had been many other things to think of and - 

He had told Thorin - 

Back on the Carrock - 

That he -

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh _Eru._

Had he just - 

And in front of the entire company - 

And the elves - 

And - 

Yup.

He apparently had.

If he were to judge merely by the look Thorin was currently favouring him with.

Which had gone from furious to closed-off to shocked to -

_Hmpf!_

Well, that was quite nice, really. 

Lovely, even.

And he was rather in favour of the soft kisses that were liberally scattered across his cheeks and forehead and the top of his head and even his ears (and _that_ was rather inspired territory to shower with that form of attention. A hobbit´s ears were … _sensitive_. And this hobbit was quite leaving it at _that_ , thank you very much.)

He even approved of the mumbling and grumbling that was the dwarves´ cherished secret language - _ghiva-_ \- _azun_ \- well, they both sounded quite lovely and appropriate, whatever they might mean, and Bilbo was very willing to accept them as his due. Only - 

He needed to breathe.

And while he generally had no problem whatsoever with finding himself pressed to that lovely rock of a chest and with the strong arms encircling his form he would prefer to be able to enjoy that pastime on many, many more occasions in the very near future so he would have to - 

“Nghh - Thorin! I can´t _breathe_!”

And did those words not work like magic!

And that expression on the dwarf´s face as he stepped back to give the hobbit room was very, very - 

Becoming.

Endearing.

Flush-inspiring.

Unfair.

Really.

Was he even _allowed_ to smile in that way?

He would surely never get any work that kings were supposed to get done done if he took to smiling like that during any council sessions. It would only serve to distract its members.

Bilbo decided he had to make certain that Thorin Oakenshield would only ever bestow such a smile on _him_. For the greater good of Middle Earth. Because - 

“ _Bilbo_.”

And he was not going be allowed to breathe any name but for the hobbit´s own in just such a manner either!

Could he possibly get away with restricting that forehead-thing as well? And he really, really needed to enquire into the further meaning of the same! 

Which he would have done in the beginning.

If the dwarf were not so entirely distracting all the time.

Right.

So.

Oh for Yavanna´s sake - _must_ they _gawk_ so? If the dwarves kept that up – along with the cheering and the catcalls and he was going to have to have a very serious word with Nori because there were _children_ about – well, more or less, really, they _behaved_ like children a lot of the time. And that went for both dwarves and elves, thank you. - and _that_ gesture - 

He was quite certain the tips of his ears had just flushed.

And he was merely a moment away from hiding his face in one particular dwarf´s chest again.

The particular dwarf who appeared unable to stop himself from running his hands up and down the hobbit´s arms.

And those eyes - 

Oh dear.

Bilbo was in such trouble.

He had shouted at the king.

He had shouted at the stupid, stubborn, idiotic king who had apparently thought it a brilliant idea to try and meet his death at the hands of the Defiler instead of being roasted by a dragon and had terrified him in a manner the hobbit had never been terrified before.

To lose Thorin was - 

So he had run. Had unsheathed Sting and had thrown his body against the orc who had been about to present its master with the dwarf´s head with all his might and had _killed_ and -

Thank Eru the eagles had come.

And then Gandalf had done something wizard-ish and had assured that Thorin would live and Bilbo had been so very, very relieved and then Thorin had started to rant at him and he may have - 

Yes, well.

The truth was, of course - 

The truth was - 

He loved Thorin.

And wasn´t that just splendid.

He, Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, had gone and fallen in love with a king.

And not just any king, _no_ \- the most stubborn, rudest, arrogant, overbearing - 

Why did the stupid dwarf have to be so lovely?

If he weren´t so lovely then Bilbo would not be in such a dilemma now!

He could have simply ended their courtship and kept the whole adventure business on a professional level but no, Mister King under the Mountain had to go and look at him with those sad, blue eyes and smile that smile at him and kiss him quite sense – yes, well ….

And now he was in love.

With Thorin.

And he had just told him.

On top of a cliff.

In front of witnesses.

Wonderful.

Stupid dwarf.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Hm? Oh. Thorin. I -” Bilbo replied distractedly, his eyes darting about to everywhere but the dwarf in front of him.

A frown appeared on the dwarf king´s face.

The hobbit was clearly agitated. Gone was the smile and his attempts at fulfilling the courtship requirements appeared to hold little interest to his One at that point. Surely they were not _that_ lacking? He should be accorded leniency – he thought he _had_ been accorded leniency only now - 

“Bilbo.” Thorin had stood, moving so as to be able to reach for his hobbit … only to find his hand shaken off. The frown deepened. “ _Bilbo._ What is wrong?”

“Wrong? No – what – nothing is _wrong_!” The hobbit had taken to pacing in front of the tree, small arms flailing at his sides. “Why should anything be _wrong_?! I am merely a hobbit who is being courted by a _king_. Surely I am not the first _hobbit_ to be courted by a _king_. And I can always just lock myself into the pantry when anyone comes knocking to drag me off to any consort business and -” 

“ _Hobbit_.”

Bilbo´s mouth fell shut as he felt the deep growl in the chest he found himself pressed against, a large hand running soothingly down his back, its twin firmly holding him in place.

Eyes closing, the hobbit breathed in the calming scent that was his dwarf.

Earth and pipeweed and musk and uniquely _Thorin_.

Only he was not just _Thorin_ , was he - He was also - 

Fingers curled into the fabric of the king´s tunic. Then -

“I can´t.”


	8. You Left!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are words.
> 
> About Ones.
> 
> And consort business.
> 
> And possibly some fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don´t ask me, I don´t even know what this is. It just happened. I may be compensating RL issues with an accumulation of fluff and silliness. You are welcome to smack either of them over their heads at your leisure. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments, kudos and bookmarks - they make me smile. :)

He had just aged another century.

If not two.

At least.

He would not be surprised to find more silver in his hair the next time he chanced to look upon his reflection.

And all because his little love was being ridiculous.

Entirely.

Which Thorin was going to firmly inform him of.

Once he had had his fill of soft, warm hobbit in his arms.

Which might take -

A while.

Bilbo -

Fitted perfectly. 

Bilbo was _made_ to fit perfectly.

Made for _him_.

Any and all thoughts the hobbit entertained about being unsuitable or unfit to rule at his side were as ludicrous as they were unnecessary.

And he would not permit his One to have any doubts on the matter.

Bilbo Baggins was _perfect_.

The perfect hobbit, the perfect burglar, the perfect future Consort of Erebor, his perfect - 

One.

And he was not at all biased.

He may have wanted the hobbit from the moment that round, green door had been opened to him to reveal an impossibly cute, curly-haired, flustered, small creature, might have _craved_ his touch and his heart, but it was not only Thorin himself who had come under the hobbit´s spell.

He had had to forcefully remove his sister-sons from the hobbit´s person – _around_ his person (Cuddle With The Hobbit was _not_ a well-known parlour game, whatever the two simpletons who were his heirs – and Dain was still an option! - had tried to convince him of); he was going to have to distract Dwalin from arranging regular tea parties with his husband once they had reclaimed Erebor and if he had to employ Nori´s services in order to have his husband to himself he would not at all hesitate to sink so -

And when he thought of _Bofur_ -

The company could find their _own_ hobbit. Bilbo was his.

And at that present moment he was his to comfort and his to run his fingers through soft curls and his to hold close.

Hm.

His hobbit really was the perfect fit and - 

Was shaking.

Thorin drew back.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bilbo.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The low rumble send additional shivers through his body.

Which were not unpleasant.

Which he did not at all need at that present moment.

Because those shivers that were the result of low rumbles – and growls and piercing blue eyes and that _mouth_ on his skin and yes, well, he had long left his proper hobbit respectability behind. Apparently. – were directly responsible for the nasty situation he currently found himself in.

If the stupid dwarf were not so stupidly - 

And he was also not at all in any need of the large, calloused hand that had reached up to cup his cheek and was bringing his head close and - 

Not _this_ again. 

It was confusing.

And _distracting._

And he did not have time for distractions right now, thank you.

He needed to inform Thorin that he could not possibly be any Cons - 

Oh, but that _was_ lovely.

Calming, even.

Thank Eru the dwarf knew when to take the gentle head-knocking approach because, well, he had seen _things_. Being subjected to dwarves. A lot. For some time. And they did _things_. With their heads. Foreheads. Which were rather unmentionable, really. 

To a hobbit.

Who was not built of stone.

Or rock.

His head hurt when he thought about them.

The first time he had witnessed Dwalin and Balin grab each other´s arm and then bash their heads together …

Nope.

No, thank you.

He´d rather endure the cuddles.

If approached by the One Dwarf At A Time Rule.

And any Durins in small helpings.

Well, but for one Durin.

But that would be rather complicated, really.

With that Durin being a king.

And residing in a mountain.

Once it would have been retaken.

And Bilbo being home in his smial.

In the Shire.

Because a king needed a consort, obviously, and Bilbo could not possible be that consort, no matter how that something around the general region of his breast twinged and pulled at the thought of not being with Thorin and how much he had come to care for that stupid, irresistible dwarf with his bad temper and his grouchiness and his brooding and his complete lack of any sense of direction and -

He was about to hyperventilate.

Was he allowed to hyperventilate?

Did hobbits hyperventilate?

He could not recall any case, really, seeing that hobbits were quite phlegmatic and placid, on the whole (if they were not called Lobelia Sackville-Baggins but Bilbo preferred not to think of his greedy, nosy cousin when practically in his dwarf´s arms, thank you) but surely -

Well, they would now because frankly, he found it a little hard to breathe and - 

“No.”

\- he would quite like to – _wait_. What -

_No?_

~ ~ ~ ~

“I am _what_?!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Fine, so he may have said that thing about being in his smial in the Shire _aloud_ , unwittingly, but that did _not_ give the dwarf the right to spring such a – a - _thing_ on him!

Dwarves.

Really.

Could they not do things like proper, normal beings?

Slowly?

Tentatively?

You know.

Getting to know each other.

Find out whether they were compatible.

The whole flowers and dinners and picnics and gifts route of things?

And then there was the, uhm, physical side of things although he probably could at least skip that in his own particular case and he was _not_ going to blush thinking about a certain towel incident and certain elven baths and things that may or may not have occurred in his bedroom or on the road and -

No, they had to be entirely dramatic and determined and stubborn and – and single-minded and tell an unprepared, already slightly afflicted hobbit that a hobbit was their -

_One._

Well.

That Mahal or Aule or whatever the silly Valar liked to call himself had a lot to answer for.

Really.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bilbo -”

“Don´t you _Bilbo_ me, Thorin Oakenshield – and don´t you _dare_ to try that look on me! I am _immune_ to _that look_! I have been subjected to _that look_ for weeks now! Yes, and now I know where you nephew has it from! Really, you – you _dwarf!_ You are so _very_ lucky that I – _wait!_ ”

The flustered, much put-upon hobbit paused, his frowning gaze fixed on the dwarf before him; finger that had begun to poke the solid, armour-less chest – with dedication – halting mid-poke.

Then -

“What would happen if I rejected your suit?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had to remind himself he was King.

And that kings did not give in to any urges.

No matter how strong they were.

Or at least such urges.

It was perfectly within kingly rights and limits to give in to any urges that were related to silencing one´s hobbit by the force of one´s mouth on one´s hobbit´s mouth if one´s hobbit insisted on making a kingly head spin. And on being infernally cute. When upset. And enraged. 

Not that Thorin had any wish to make his hobbit feel either. He wished to make his hobbit feel quite different things and he had no particular preferences as to whether those things would occur in a garden or in a bed but those things were clearly out of the question at that present moment, seeing his hobbit was a small bundle of affront and disbelief and anxiety and worry. 

And was poking his chest.

For emphasis.

Which was rather ador- 

He was _King._

And he was _not_ going to hide his face in his hands. 

Not even in one.

_Mahal._

~ ~ ~ ~

He _liked_ reading.

And Dwalin need never know that he had turned the pages of an _elven_ book. 

And he would just mention that incident with the elderly dwarrowdam and the ale and her skirts should Dwalin ever find out and ponder the matter. Loudly. In public.

And he would do it when Nori would be near.

Because it had just been a _book_.

And it had all been for Bilbo anyway.

Fine, his interest in Bilbo but surely that was the same thing. He had needed to learn more about hobbits. And he could not possibly have asked the hobbit concerned in the matter because that would have been -

He had his pride.

Or what was left of it.

Considering his choice of reading material.

And having asked an _elf_ for it.

While on a bed provided by _elves_.

In halls brimming with _elves_.

The things Thorin suffered for his One.

And he was suffering them at that very moment because his beloved, his love, his _One_ had no concept of _One_ s and Thorin may have blurted out that Bilbo was his _One_ in that moment of sheer panic when his _One_ had suddenly babbled about the Shire and his hobbit hole and going back to it.

He would never mention his comforting skills to anyone if notions of flight came into the head of the individual he had been attempting to comfort. Calm. Comfort and calm. He was very much able of both those things. Even if he could practically hear Dis cackle somewhere in a far corner of his mind.

It angered him that Bilbo thought so little of himself as to consider himself not suited as his consort.

Bilbo was all that was suited to the task.

He would control the more taxing members of his Council with his unrelenting glares and his common sense and his diplomacy and his way of words when Thorin would just threaten to behead them and be done with it, they would all be charmed by him – as would the rest of his people – he would be able to discuss such matters as any tiresome members of any guilts would see fit to plague his unwilling ears with without having to resort to threats of banishment (no matter if Thorin should think they would deserve it!) and he would soothe the king´s woes after a long, excruciating day among said members of either or worse - both - and if Thorin was lucky he would take to petting his hair while on their bed and - 

He wanted no-one else.

He would _have_ no-one else.

This small, gentle, soft, brave, beautiful hobbit was _his_.

And he was Bilbo´s.

Besides - 

Thorin crossed his arms, stubbornly returning the glare he had been favoured with.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You assured me of your affections.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“You left.”

“I did not -”

Bilbo rudely ignored the protesting dwarf, not at all interested in any interruptions. Because that - 

Stung.

A little.

If Bilbo was the dwarf´s _One_ \- and the hobbit had yet to determine whether he found that concept flatteringly endearing or the dwarves completely off their combined rockers – and if what the reticent dwarf had just told him about the, to his mind as yet neutral, concept was true he was a half of another´s soul and owned his heart and there would be him and no other -

Well.

He had _left._

“You. Left.” The hobbit did not even try to keep the hurt and anger out of his voice. If Thorin had left then he had decided Bilbo was no the _One_ he had envisioned for himself and he had decided – having found him wanting (and his ears, up to their very tip!, would redden if he had time for some such nonsense at that very moment considering the, uhm, occurrences in his home. That was, some of them. Yes, well.) - that he would rather spend the rest of his long dwarf life alone and had then decided to make the best of it when Bilbo had caught up with them and now Bilbo had gone and fallen for the dwarf and really he had much better - 

“I love you.”

Oh.

Or that.

Yes.

Quite.

Especially when he was pulled back against a solid chest and a calloused hand pressed his face into the same. And then there was that wildly thumping heart his cheek was in close contact with. And that low rumble. Again.

And that was not fair _at all_.

Because he was still very cross. Especially because the stupid dwarf had made him think stupid things. And he was not at all fond of thinking about stupid things. Because they were just stupid. Generally.

Really.

Stupid dwarf.

And as for that stupid consort business -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Why did you come?”

“Why did you leave without telling me?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Stubborn.

Pedantic.

Stubborn, pedantic hobbit.

And it was not helpful at all that the cross, mulish expression on the hobbit´s face was one of his favourite expressions. 

Making him wish to pepper that face with soft kisses until he had coaxed his hobbit into rather more pleasurable pastimes. Of which Thorin would be very much in favour because it had been far too long that he had been able to snatch more than a moment alone with his hobbit. There had always been a member of the company around.

Particulary Oin.

With his nasty poking and his orders.

Who made him think about who it was that was _King_.

And then their host.

(If anyone was to call the hobbit a bunny – little or otherwise – it would be _him_!)

Or an elf.

Or two.

Thorin grimaced.

And then there was that cat.

Which he had absolutely no partiality for whatsoever. 

It was not his fault that the sleek, purring creature had chosen him as a favourite.

And he was absolutely not going to rub that under any noses.

Especially not his nephews´.

Who had taken to _dallying_ with the elves. 

One in particular.

He was going to have to disinherit Kili.

Although, the boy _had_ protested.

It was the elf whom Thorin had to keep an eye on.

When he was not busy with his hobbit.

Hm.

He might have to delegate that task to Dwalin.

Because he planned to be very busy with his hobbit and to convince him of a great many things and to berate him for an evenly numbered number of things.

_Doubting_ himself. 

Doubting _Thorin_.

The king huffed. 

Fondly.

His ridiculous little love.

Who had just taken possession of his braids and - 

_Ow._

Thorin glared.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Well _you_ did not pay attention to _me_!”

Bilbo did not see why he should apologise. 

The dwarf could scowl and grumble all he liked, he wanted answers and he was going to get them and if he had to involve any braids in his quest for information he would do so.

Besides, Thorin was lucky he had not tweaked his _nose_.

Interestingly large as it was.

Which he quite liked, thank you.

It was a lovely nose.

Especially when it rubbed his own.

Or his cheek.

Or - 

Yes, well.

So. Answers. 

Right.

The hobbit still held on to one of the braids as he put his question to his inattentive intended once more. 

Sternly.

Expectingly.

Not at all distracted by the strange softness of the strand in his hand.

“You say I am your One and yet you left. I don´t know about you dwarves but a hobbit tends to stay around their love interest, for the whole courting and getting to know business and all.” There was nothing for it, he had to pull at that braid again. Because Thorin – the git! - was not looking at him. Honestly. And he was - 

Blushing?

Wait.

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain was - 

Blushing?

Well, his cheeks bore an unprecedented red hue, at least. Or the part the hobbit was able to see. Honestly. Dwarves and their beards. Even if his dwarf kept his rather short.

Oh, but that was rather endearing.

Should he tell him that he - 

Nope.

That would only give the silly dwarf another reason to scowl and to not tell him the things he wanted to know so he would just keep that thought close to his heart. For now.

And be very stern with his dwarf. He should have taken a firm line from the start. Obviously. Well then.

“There will not be any apple crumble for you if you do not tell me.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I had no wish of forcing my affections on you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Because he knew his hobbit had a kind heart, he had learned that on his hobbit´s doorstep when he had had to stop the small, ruffled being from venturing out into the cold to chase after his fully grown nephews.

And he wanted his _love_.

Not his pity.

Or mere submission.

And Bilbo had made it clear, repeatedly, that he had no intention of joining the quest, that he meant to remain in his cosy, safe, warm hobbit hole and who was Thorin to pressure his One into what he obviously considered a _dangerous fool´s errant._

His One had talked about breakfast and furnishing them with provisions and had felt so warm and soft when Thorin had momentarily forgotten himself and had seized the hobbit into his arms and laid him onto the bed and - 

It had taken all his resolve to leave the next morning and to not throw himself at the hobbit´s feet and beg him to come. To make the journey Thorin knew would be dark and full of danger a little more bearable. But he had not done it. Bilbo had not felt the same pull, same longing as him, evidently, and the thought of risking the life of his One, who was untrained in any combat, innocent in war, untried in battle, so gentle and small and - 

He had touched his hair.

Redone his braids.

Had given him hope. And momentary happiness such as he had not felt before. Not even at the birth of his sister-sons.

And had had not the smallest notion what his actions might mean to a dwarf.

That understanding had cut Thorin like a sword.

The hobbit might have felt some kind of attraction to him, perhaps even curiosity, perhaps hobbits were much more free with their affections and attentions – and that particular thought had not improved his mood when the company had set out from Hobbiton - 

Bilbo being in some _hobbit_ ´s arms. 

Kissing some _hobbit_.

Being _kissed_ by some hobbit.

_Touched_ by some hobbit.

Minty had nearly thrown him off her back at that particular hard pull.

Insolent pony.

Thorin was King.

He would not put his own needs first.

He would be -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Noble. You thought you would be _noble._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was not certain he liked the slightly incredulous tone in his hobbit´s voice.

He had been noble.

He had behaved in a manner his fathers and forefathers would have approved of.

It behoved him to show selflessness.

He was King.

He would not – could not – put his own interests first.

And he had assumed Bilbo had not wanted him.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You, Thorin Oakenshield, are, quite possibly, the silliest dwarf to ever walk the face of Arda!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin would have protested at the accusation, most vehemently so.

Except he suddenly found himself with an amorous hobbit in his lap.

On the grass.

And his mouth most pleasantly, stormingly occupied.

He _melted._

Even if he would not admit to the sound that he might just have made.

Which was most certainly not a whimper.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin.”

The carding through his curls went on, even as there was a drawn out hum. 

The hobbit himself was reluctant to break the pleasant spell by removing his head from its very comfortable resting place but not only was he mindful of his dwarf´s wounds, even if the dwarf himself was clearly _not_ – no, he was not going to think of some of the perfectly acceptable activities he had engaged in with his bullheaded, handsome love; that would only make him turn red again and really, there was only so much you could blame on prolonged exposure to the summer sun and that bee seemed to have been a little shocked in its sensibilities and he had the very firm intention of taking anything further to a bedroom, thank you very much! - 

Gods. 

But Thorin was very thorough and that thing he did with his - 

_Nope_.

Baggins.

_Baggins_ ; Baggins.

Never mind any Took sides.

Yes, and the Baggins in this Baggins had made certain promises and it probably would not be wise to disappoint any resident skinchangers and that Baggins also had certain consort business to ponder – Perfect! Thorin had said he was _perfect._ Now he had to add _deluded_ to his list of the dwarf king´s idiosyncrasies. He was a hobbit. Hobbits did not _do_ royalty. Yes, they had their Thain but that was hardly comparable to any proper ruling and any thrones and crowns and petitioners and guilds and general subjects havoc (they were talking about _dwarves_ , after all. There had to be some havoc involved. Often.). And as Consort - 

Well.

Hobbit-Consort.

To Thorin.

Who had sworn to immediately banish any dwarf who as much as looked at Bilbo askew. 

Now _that_ would make him quite popular, surely. Amongst a larger number of the dwarves of Erebor.

Silly dwarf.

And look they surely would.

A _hobbit_ in a mountain full of dwarves.

Honestly.

No matter if Thorin wanted them to look at him or not.

Yes, he was Thorin´s to look at, though the dwarf took the possessive streak a tad far perhaps; no, he most certainly was not _pretty_. If anyone was pretty it was -

And that scowl was attractive, too.

It should be Bilbo worrying about anyone looking at anyone with too much interest.

Because Thorin was - 

Beautiful.

With his long, dark hair and his silver strains and his icy blue eyes and the noble brow and - 

Hm.

Maybe that whole consort business would not be so bad.

He would be able to keep an eye on what was his (if any dwarves were allowed to make any such declarations he was, too. And he would have his work cut out for him as it was. Best start with the sternness now and get some practice in. Yes.) and have the additional benefit of enjoying Thorin´s grumpy company when everyone else would be obliged to retreat for the day.

And then he could - 

Yes, well.

Things.

Which he could still engage his mind in while busy in Beorn´s kitchen.

Quite.

So - 

“You never answered my question.”

Or perhaps not.

Uhm - 

Could he pretend he had no idea what the dwarf was talking about?

It worked well for some of the company.

Most of the time.

Or they possibly really had not much of an idea.

About anything.

Those silly, lovely dwarves of his.

Ugh.

Of course Thorin had to go and put a finger under his chin.

And direct his face towards his own.

And make those incredible eyes bore into him.

Really.

Stupid dwarf.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin blinked.

“You -”

His - 

And he was not even to think about - 

No-one was allowed to - 

It was off-limits -

If anyone was to - 

_What -_

The king stared after the rapidly retreating hobbit (who had mumbled something about Beorn and kitchen and baking and apples as he took himself off, very much flustered and with soft cheeks deliciously red) in mild confusion.

Then a rare, slow smile appeared on his face 

Of course no-one else was allowed to braid his hair.

That would just be ludicrous.

And as far as braiding was concerned ...


	9. The Beginning Of Mirky Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are spiders.
> 
> And a separation.
> 
> Or two.
> 
> And a little despair. 
> 
> And a little fluff.

Bilbo hated forests.

Bilbo hated strange, dark, _mirky_ forests.

And any halls in strange, dark, mirky forests.

And if he wanted to be around elves he could as well have tracked back to Rivendell. Or dragged the exasperating twins along. Who had taken their leave of them under the pretence of having to investigate the safety of paths. 

They just wanted to play with more orcs.

Or so Bilbo chose to interpret the situation.

Those – those - 

Imps!

They had cheerfully assured him that they were _alright_.

If a little stuck-up, perhaps.

Once they had all got out of that stupid forest and had moved on to evict the even stupider dragon he was going to summon Lord Elrond to Erebor and was going to have a long, dedicated, not-at-all delicate debate with the elf about teaching one´s offspring the difference between gullibility and blatant _downplaying_.

Because the Mirkwood elves were - 

A pain.

In his - quite presentable, thank you - butt.

And they would not let him near Thorin.

~ ~ ~ ~

It had been him and Kili.

And he would have been quite alone, on his own, in that blasted, nasty forest had the young dwarf not insisted on making the climb up with him because - _You could get lost in all those twigs and leaves, Uncle Boggins, and then Uncle would go entirely mad and we´d have no hope of ever getting out of this creepy wood and -_

Kili had been up half of that tree before Bilbo had even been able to blink after him.

But that might have been attributed to the glare the entirely too cheerful dwarf – they had been going in circles, after all! Had had to carry _Bombur_! Had been running out of _food_! And he had not been able to cuddle up to Thorin as much as he had wanted to, which had been the greatest calamity of them all because he had _needed_ Thorin, thank you very much. - found himself favoured with by his entirely unamused uncle.

Well, alone but for the spiders, of course.

Which he would not even dream of cuddling up to.

In fact - 

He considered them entirely uncuddlesome.

He quite liked pets and would have taken Beorn´s cat with them if Thorin had not nearly thrown a fit at the mere, slightly wistful sigh that had passed his lips when the gruffly kind skinchanger had suggested to make him a present of her.

But those spiders were - 

Yeuch.

Nasty, troublesome, ugly creatures.

And they had enraged him.

To the point of him forgetting all his fear and convincing his clearly entirely befuddled mind that rushing forward and attacking them with his little sword would be a very good idea, indeed.

They had hurt _Kili_.

Bilbo would never forget the insane dwarfling´s scream again as he got pierced by that oversized sting.

The stupid boy had tried to protect him.

Instead of making a run for it.

Fear and rage and despair had taken turns at squeezing his heart and his calls for Thorin and Fili and Dwalin and the others had gone unanswered and he knew Thorin would never desert them and Kili would not simply stay down and still tried to fight while turning increasingly pale and swaying on his feet and they were going to die and - 

An arrow had notched itself into the skull of the spider that had intended to have him as a snack.

~ ~ ~ ~

More arrows flew and the exhausted, close-to-collapsing hobbit looked up when a flash of green and silver passed him and spider after spider began to drop or screech away in panic.

He saw a barely standing Kili still trying to fire his own arrows before falling to the ground and the raging fury that took over his entire being made him rush forward again to assist in the battle, if only to take out as many of the giant beasts as he could in revenge for harming his _nephew_.

He did not care for his own safety, Kili was dy - _no_. He was hurt. Merely hurt. And he would see to it that the insufferable young dwarf would be well again and then he would go and throw himself at the dwarf´s uncle and – and - _slap_ him for being the head of a line of intolerably _stupid_ beings who did not know when to Put Themselves First.

When he found him again, that was.

And he _was_ going to find him.

And Fili.

And Dwalin.

And Balin.

And all his other _friends_.

All his _family_.

No spider was allowed to have eaten them.

Whatsoever.

He would cut any and all spider bellies open and retrieve his dwarves and then resuscitate them and then kill them all again for making him worry so and then he would grab his stupid, reckless intended and drag him off to the nearest bedroll and proceed to thoroughly inspect him for injuries and - 

“Don´t …. touch ...”

_Kili._

~ ~ ~ ~

“At ease, friend, I will not harm you.”

Kili; pale, shivering, pain shooting through his body, nevertheless managed a creditable scowl as he eyed the blond elf who was leaning over him, swatting at the hand that had attempted to touch him.

“Don´t … touch … you´re an … elf.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across the calm face as the elf inclined his head slightly.

“Mae govannen, Master Dwarf. Now rest still so that I may treat your wound.”

Kili stared at the strange face before him until he seemed to recall - 

„No! My unc – _Bilbo!_ “

The young dwarf tried to raise himself from the ground, his pained eyes franctically searching for the hobbit, trying to remove the strong arm that held him pinned and turning to some choice words in the dwarves´ secret language when he found himself hindered in his movements, to what appeared to be the elf´s serene indifference.

Well, that was _it_ , thank you very much!

Bilbo stomped up to the pair.

“Kili! If you will not stop being entirely troublesome I will be very, _very_ cross!” On that loving note, the hobbit ordered the bewildered young dwarf to be still and to let the very nice, helpful - never mind that he was as yet unknown to them! - elf tend to him while in the same breath requesting him to never give him such a fright again and to refrain from - 

“ - ever coming to my rescue again! Next time you have a choice between being skewered by something long and thick and sharp and poking and _escaping_ you will assemble the few wits your stupid Mahal gave you and _run_! Understood? Good.” The hobbit then took the pain-stricken, pale face into his small hands and pressed a firm kiss on the sweating forehead. “Silly boy”, he almost crooned, “What would we do without you?”

Those big brown eyes that Bilbo had become quite immune to, thank you, studied him for a moment until Kili snapped his head around to stare at the elf at his side, who had been unobtrusively tending to him while the distraction had made it possible for him to do so.

As if sensing the scrutiny, the elf raised his own, pale eyes, and let his calm gaze rest on the injured dwarf.

Nothing was said for a moment until Kili suddenly turned his head away and, eyes closed, mumbled something incomprehensible under his breath.

Bilbo, trying very hard to be brave and calm and strong and mature-hobbitish and to not let his very great worry for the tiresome, loveable, youngest Durin show, stilled the hand that had been gently carding through the wild mop of hair (once they were out of that horrible forest and Kili was _safe_ and _well_ again he would make the careless boy sit down in front of him and would attempt to bring some sort of order to the mess! And yes, he would use the boy´s uncle´s comb so Thorin Oakenshield, Mister King under the Mountain, had better quickly reappear where the hobbit could see him and search his pockets for the necessary item and then he would subject the dark, silver-streaked mane to the same treatment and then put in those braids again and -)

But Kili was speaking.

The hobbit leaned in a little further, his voice quite gentle as he tried to make sense of the garbled mutterings.

“Kili?”

There was a soft, quiet sigh before the dwarf eventually succumbed to the darkness.

“´s pretty. The elf.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Right.

Well.

That was - 

At least Thorin had not been around to overhear the observation.

Even if the young elf had.

Whose expression bore a strange kind of softness as his gaze rested on the unconscious dwarf, before he suddenly jumped up and into the trees and was - 

Gone.

Right.

Well.

Really.

That was rather - 

Rude.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Peace, Bilbo. My father -”

“You´re father is a nitwit! Thorin will not -” The sorely tried hobbit buried his face in his hands. And he had just insulted the King of the Woodland Realm, too. To his son. Perfect. But then – “Eru, I am _surrounded_ by nitwits.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The elf´s name was Legolas.

And Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son of the King of Mirkwood, which was the former Greenwood, had insisted to stay with Kili while Bilbo would, at last, be taken to the dungeon to Present To His Majesty The Sensible And Only Option That Was Answering The King´s Questions. 

Thranduil could go hang himself.

Because Bilbo would be hugging the only king whom he was currently -and would forever be - interested in.

And then cuff him.

Twice.

At the very least.

Honestly.

Making him worry so.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was, quite possibly, his favourite place in the world.

It did not matter that he was dirty and that his hair needed a good brush and that he had clearly not eaten enough (probably out of his inborn stubbornness, the stupid oaf!) and that the unique smell he had come to identify him with was only to be faintly detected underneath the sweat and the grime and the, yes, well - 

All that mattered was that he was _Thorin_ and that Bilbo was in his arms and hanging on for dear life while being simultaneously in danger of being crushed by those impossible strong arms that held him pressed against the merely tunic-clad chest while thick fingers carded through his curls, and he had every intention of staying right where he was for a great many moments more, no matter how many raised elegant eyebrows or discreet coughs might be involved. (Bilbo glared at the elven guard over his dwarf´s shoulder, inspiring the same into retreat).

“Are you hurt?”

He supposed now was not the time to inform his impossible love that he was likely to leave that cell with a few bruises at that rate.

He hugged the dwarf closer.

And if he took to his very own, special, decidedly unhobbitish interpretation of _hugging_ it was nobody´s business but his own, thank you.

And his dwarf did not seem to mind.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin. You are not helping.”

Not that a pacing King was not a rather magnificent sight but it was starting to give this hobbit a headache.

(No, he could not simply remove his eyes from the dwarf. He was going to look at the dwarf as long as possible; just to assure himself that he was indeed alive and had not been eaten by any spiders. Or worse. Plagued to death by elves. Which the dwarf appeared to consider the worse fate. And the eye-rolling really did not help with the pounding in his head.)

“I am well aware how _useless_ I am, hobbit.”

And they were back to the growling.

Hobbit.

Really.

“Tiresome, not useless.” Bilbo firmly ignored the reproachful, wounded look he was favoured with. “Kili will be fine. The healers are taking care of him and Legolas -”

“ _Thranduil´s_ son! You expect me to express relief at the knowledge that the son of my _enemy_ is _ensconcing_ himself with my nephew; who is too weak to fend off any unwanted advances, who – _what_?”

Oh, good.

_That_ still worked.

Good thing that they were rather round or else there would be nothing much to present by way of displeasure and emphasis. 

Although Thorin´s hips were rather lovely, too.

But if he were to put his hands on _those_ they would not be getting anywhere – or at least not anywhere near where that discussion was supposed to be going – so his own would have to suffice. Yes, and he was also going to intensify his glare because really, he loved his dwarves – and that particular stubborn and grouchy one particularly! - but all those rocks they had in their heads required the firmest, most unambiguous approach. So - 

“Legolas _saved_ Kili. And he saved me. He fought of the remaining spiders and then sent word that he would return with an injured party. He brought Thranduil´s personal healer to look after _your_ nephew and -and there was all that poison and Kili was so horribly pale and I would have been able to see you much sooner if you were not so completely bullhea-“ The hobbit suddenly broke off and - sniffed. And then he sniffed again. The truth was he had really, really missed his dwarf and he had been so very afraid that he would not see him again and then there had been Kili and surely it was perfectly alright for him to - 

Strong arms instantly wrapped around him once more, some nonsensical nonsense or other being murmured into his ear (well it was _Khuzdul_! He could only take a wild _guess_.). Well, fine. That was rather better, thank you.

And so were the low apologies he _could_ understand. And it was rather nice to be assured that he had been painfully, horribly missed. And that he was someone´s heart. And _everything_. Although he really was going to have to pet his dwarf and scatter quite a lot of soft kisses all over him in return once his arms decided to unwrap themselves from around the thick neck because he did not at all like to feel Thorin tremble and express the terror he had felt, believing both his One and his sister-son lost to him due to his own actions and being thrown into that horrible, dark, damp cell and - 

Ah.

He still had to - 

Delicately approach the matter of - 

Or should he go straight for stern and threatening?

Perhaps distract his dwarf? He _did_ have that thing for having his - 

No, then he would only get _interested_ again and then make a poor hobbit´s brain turn into mush so that would be highly impractical so - 

“Thorin. You will be diplomatic.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin?”

~ ~ ~ ~

It had been an illusion.

A sign of his growing madness.

But he would gladly have lived with any madness if only it had meant that he could hear that voice again.

And he would have gladly sunk into further madness only to be able to feel the gentle touch to the side of his face, his dirty hair being smoothed back and - 

“Oh Thorin...”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king´s head jerked up.

Bilbo was _here_.

Bilbo – his hobbit, his love, his _One_ – was here. Here in the solitary, dark, lonely cell; here in the dungeon he had been tossed into by the two elven guards who had dragged him away from the elf king´s throne, refusing to listen to him when he practically _begged_ for them to let him go and search for his hobbit and his nephew; entirely unmoved by both his rage and his pleadings.

But Bilbo was here.

A shaking hand lifted to a soft cheek and - 

Thorin snapped.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin rued the day he met the wizard.

Fine, he did _not_ rue the day he met the wizard because the wizard sending him to the Shire had been the wisest decision the wizard had ever made, obviously, but once he made it out of his prison and the blasted wood he would go in search of the wizard and _throttle_ him.

And then allow his eldest nephew to poke him with one of his many knives – never mind the boy having been stripped of them, he´d get them back. Thorin would see to it.

And then punch that elf.

Spiders.

Thorin _hated_ spiders.

He had slammed Orcrist into the skull of one when he heard Fili scream; swinging around to see his nephew sink to the ground, a net of white quickly weaving around him, and the golden haired dwarf being dragged away.

His feet had begun to move on their own accord while he shouted and demanded the monster release his sister-son when he suddenly felt the sharp sting of pain and immobility set over him.

And then there had been flashes.

Of green and silver and red and gold.

And shrieks.

And then Thorin had known nothing.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had woken in a cell, a she-elf brusquely informing him that the King wished to see him.

The King.

_Thranduil._

Who had accused him and his company of trespassing. Of disturbing peace and order in his realm, of risking the well-being of its residents with his stupidity.

And who had demanded answers.

To know what _purpose_ Thorin Oakenshield had so far East.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin resisted the urge to punch his mortal enemy and returned the cool, haughty gaze with a glare.

“The hobbit. My nephew. Where are they?”

One pale, elegant eyebrow went up.

“The dwarves of Erebor travelling with a child of the kindly West?”

“My chosen travel companions are none of your concern, elf. _Where_ is he? _Where_ is my sister-son?”

Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, barely twitched at the snarl that had been directed at him. He stopped in the raising of his wine glass however, one long leg crossed across the other, the lithe form reclining leisurely on the elaborately carved throne. 

“You appear to labour under a misapprehension, Thorin Oakenshield. The whereabouts of shirelings hold little interest for me. That of _dwarves_ none at all. However –“ A barely there hint of a smirk crossed the stoic features as the elf suddenly rose and made his way down the steps to stand in front of his prisoner, arms folded behind his back, rich silver robe swaying with every step taken - “If they should be of such great import to yourself, I will offer you my _cooperation_. Tell me what it is that takes you to my realm and I will show myself benevolent and set you free so that you may seek out those lost to you at your convenience.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“They are not here...”

The truth manifested itself in the dwarf king like a bolt of ice. 

Bilbo - 

Kili - 

_No._

It could not be.

It - 

Fury welled up inside him and threatened to consume him; the two guards at his side quickly taking to restraining him from launching himself at their king as he gave voice to his rage.

“ _Release me!_ I have to find – they cannot be dead! They _must_ not be -” The king attempted to shake his elven guards off in vain, his despair growing at the realisation that - “ _You!_ You left them behind! Your cold heart did not care to have the forest searched; you chose to not come to the aid of an innocent, brave hobbit who is worth _more_ than your entire kingdom; a young, courageous dwarf barely off age who is dearer to me than you could -” 

Thorin suddenly halted, the colour completely draining from his face.

Moments seemed to pass, the air around them devoid of any sound.

Then - 

In barely a whisper - 

“I led them to their deaths.”

~ ~ ~ ~

If the dwarf had chanced to look up into his captor´s face at that moment, he would have seen a brief flicker of an emotion crossing the same.

Thranduil rested his unreadable gaze on the broken dwarf king before flicking a hand at his guards.

He stood before his throne, stoically observing the unresisting prisoner being taken back to his cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm yes, hello!
> 
> We enter the difficult territory, for me. Remember - no One Ring, tweaking, shuffling etc. And yes, I chose to do a little timeline jumping i.e. give you the fluffy bit(s) before the not-so-fluffy bits. Or rather - give you The Confrontation at the end. The reason is very simple - it just happened that way and wanted to happen that way. I do hope it´s not too confusing though. 
> 
> I am not at all fond of DoS Legolas so you will have to suffer through my Legolas, I´m afraid. Which is heavily inspired by the wonderful bundle of loveliness and starlight that is Legolas as written by authoressjean in the To Change universe. Ihavenoshameno. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this, the feedback, kudos and bookmarks. I owe you all cookies. I would give them to you, too, but have you ever tried to resist Dwalin´s Sad Eyes? It´s a lost cause. Is.


	10. Kiss Me, Kiss Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin spend some quality time - or as much of it as you can, when elves and nasty dungeons are involved - while dwarvish-elven relations are ... furthered.

The dwarf on the bed scowled.

“It´s you.”

“It is me.”

The scowl deepened at the smile in the voice, then a hand ran across a face as if the action would help smoothing out any possible creases that were the result of resting amidst all those soft pillows and life, in general, would make a lot more sense. Eventually.

With a groan, Kili flopped back against all the unexpected fluffiness, closing his rather more heavy eyes again.

“I suppose you wish to kiss me, too.”

Had his eyes been open, he would have been able to enjoy the rare sight of one of the First Born being at a total loss.

Entirely bewildered.

Confused, even.

A pair of elegant brows located somewhere within the general region of a golden hairline.

Unheard of.

“I am to kiss you?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was right.

Elves were _stupid_.

They had no common sense at all. All they did was stare. Quietly.

Which was unsettling.

And just rude.

So much for the elves´ famous courtesy.

Kili favoured the elf who was sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed with a look that clearly spoke of his opinion of his intellect.

Honestly, if -

Wait.

The elf was sitting on his bed.

Which wasn´t even his bed.

It was a strange bed.

In a strange room.

A strange, frilly, airy room.

Where _was_ he?

And where was _Fili_?!

And Uncle?

And Bilbo?

Bilbo!

Mahal – where was his hobbity uncle?! 

He sat up in a flash, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and the instant throbbing in his head, looking around wildly; dark hair tussled, eyes wide and full of dread.

“Bilbo! The spiders – I must -” He looked around frantically. “Where did you put my bow? I must - _I´m naked!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

If anyone should ever ask, he most certainly did not squeak. That was something hobbits did, in his experience. Fine, his hobbity experience was not all that extensive but the one hobbit he _was_ acquainted with _did_ squeak (and it was rather adorable and made him appear even more cuddly and if it weren´t for his uncle´s growls and blatant hobbit-hogging Fili and he would be spending a lot more hours getting cosy with their soon to be hobbity relation!) and he did _not_ make any sounds like that and if ever anyone should accuse him of anything remotely resembling them he would, uhm, well, he´d think of something. Ingenious. Fili would help. They would just have to make certain that they exercised their wrath not anywhere within the vicinity of their uncle because -

An angry Uncle Bilbo was -

It looked all cute and adorable and sweet and funny at first but then he would eventually start with the hands and the hips and The Glare (Uncle Thorin could even learn a thing or two!) and then there was that finger and – the worst of it – the threats of the stream of hobbity baked goods stopping and that was just unjust and low and then he would - 

Look so disappointed.

And _that_ was _really_ unfair.

And even Uncle shrank back from their hobbit´s wrath. Until he realised how cute it was and then started with the gooey eyes and the smouldering and all those things an impressionable nephew really did not wish to see and - 

Wait.

He was naked.

On a strange bed.

And that very strange elf was sitting on it.

Pulling the cover up to his chest, Kili eyed the elf accusingly, the air around them practically brimming with a silent, suspicious question.

And the elf just _smiled_!

Gently.

With a hint of amusement in his pale eyes.

Right.

That was it.

If the elf thought he was impressing him in any way he would learn that he was dealing with a _dwarf_!

And one of the Line of Durin.

As if he could ever be interes- impressed by anything an _elf_ did.

Impossible.

Even if the other two were alright.

And didn´t stare at him in such ways.

Kili huffed, rolled his eyes and suddenly threw back the crisp white sheet and made to stand. (If he had to go in search of his kin while naked then he would go in search of his kin while naked.) 

It would serve the prissy elf right.

And any other elves that might be around (he had a high suspicion that he found himself in what was practically a _nest_ of them, given the chamber´s furnishing and all that. He was not _stupid_ , whatever the rest of the company might think.).

His bow.

He needed his bow.

And then he was going to - 

“What are you doing?”

Gods, the elf really _was_ stupid.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Talk.”

“Yes.”

“To Thranduil.”

“Yes.

“No.

“Thorin.”

“No.”

“Do I have to pull your braids again?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin glared at his One.

Bilbo wanted him to _talk_ to Thranduil.

He _insisted_ he talked to _Thranduil_.

He seemed to _expect_ that Thorin would talk to _Thranduil_.

There was no way he was going to talk to Thranduil.

He would sooner march into Mordor and throw himself into Mount Doom before he would _talk_ to _Thranduil_.

His reasons for journeying East were none of the elf´s business and he was not going to cower before one who had deserted his _friends_ , had refused aid to the dwarves of Erebor, had watched them flee in terror and had _turned_ from them in the hour of their greatest need. 

And the blasted elf had had the infamy to imprison them! 

Thorin himself had been separated from the rest of his company and while furious, at least in the understanding that no harm would come to them.

And then _Thranduil_ had left Bilbo - his _One_ \- and his nephew - his _son_ for dead.

No, he was _not_ going to talk to Thranduil.

He would find another way of leaving that accursed forest – the elven king´s halls – his _prison_ \- and would lead his company on to Erebor. 

Without losing his way.

Which he was not at all prone to anyway.

And if he had to suffer his hair being pulled he would suffer it.

Even if he could think of more preferable situations in which that would come into account. 

More _pleasurable_ situations.

Hm.

Perhaps he could sneak another kiss?

He _deserved_ another kiss.

He deserved to be able to take his hobbit into his arms and bury his face in those curls and breathe in his scent and to lay him down onto - 

Yes, a bed would be more adequate.

And he was probably not at his best.

Dirty.

Unkempt.

Bedraggled.

Bilbo had not seemed to mind but he knew how fussy his little love was and moreover - 

He had his pride.

And Bilbo deserved _better_.

He deserved to be treated like the treasure he was; not to be pushed against any cold, wet, mould-infested dungeon walls (even if Thorin´s first instinct, once his nearly unspeakable relief had manifested itself, had been to do just that – to _devour_ his hobbit right there, against a wall, elven guards and spectators be damned); not to be offended by his dirt and _stench_ -

And they would be parted again all too soon and that cursed, pointy-eared bastard would surely find another way of separating him from those he loved - _needed_ \- he would not put it past the elf to try and detach the hobbit from the company and steal him for himself (Thorin well remembered the day when his grandfather had presented the casket full of the finest gems to the elf king, only for the elf´s stoical features to practically contort in astonishment and immediate greed. The elf liked diamonds. And Bilbo Baggins was the finest diamond he could ever hope to feast his eyes upon and he was _Thorin´s_ and Thorin would be _damned_ if he permitted any cursed elf to -) - 

“Please, Thorin.”

The king paused in his distracted pacing, dark head turning so as to enable him to stare at the gentle hand that had placed itself on his forearm.

It was so very small.

So – non-calloused.

Untrained.

Unused to - 

And yet it had defended him from - 

And had cupped the side of his face - 

Its fingers running through his hair - 

And he had thought he would never see it - 

Feel again its - 

Bilbo.

Kili.

A shudder ran through the dwarf´s form, the hobbit´s name a mere whisper on his lips as he stared at the smaller being, eyes tormented and the hand that reached out to touch for reassurance shaking.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I am here, Thorin.”

Something incomprehensible was mumbled into his curls.

The hobbit decided now was a very good time to hold on and therefore tightened his own grip around the dwarf´s broad chest. Or as much as he was able to.

And he also decided it was a very good time to nose the loose tunic.

And what was behind it.

He would, of course, prefer to do any nosing without any covering in the way but he realised that a cold, dark dungeon was perhaps not the most sensible location for fabric-shedding and there would be many moments still in which he could indulge himself thus and they would, for a change, involve a soft, comfortable bed full of fluffy and various pillows and he would have Thorin sprawled out on the same and then take to - 

Uhm, perhaps not.

Yes, it was a lovely train of thought, thank you, but would it get him anywhere at that present moment?

Frustration excluded?

And there were the guards to consider and they could be back at any moment and no-one was permitted to stare at his dwarf´s chest but him, thank you very much! He had only just managed to train the rest of the company accordingly, he really had no patience for hammering that fact into anyone else´s thick heads, currently.

Elves liked pretty things.

And Thorin´s chest was - 

Yes, well.

Very - 

Fine, he was going to use words that would _not_ make his dwarf fluster and protest and blush. If he ever heard them.

Well-defined.

Muscular.

Interestingly hairy.

(Those curls were surprisingly soft!)

Alluring.

And all his.

He had had to put up with more than a hobbit should be forced to put up with in order to be able to make that declaration and he would most certainly stake his claim.

Anyone else could get their own dwarf.

Thorin was _his._

Except for when he was being entirely silly and unreasonable and rude and stubborn.

Actually, even then.

He would just scold him then.

And ignore the puppy eyes.

Honestly.

They were even worse than Kili´s.

And those very eyes, in their non-puppy state – which Bilbo was very grateful for as that blue intensity already had the habit of doing quite enough to his equilibrium – were just then focusing on him and making him quite weak in his knees.

And -

Angry.

A lot.

Very.

Very, _very_ angry.

Unhobbit-ishly so.

Because Bilbo saw all the fear and pain and self-blame and worry and all those feelings his dwarf usually hid behind a mask of aloof stoicism.

When he wasn´t grouching.

Which was rather endearing, but quite beside the point.

And he was going to swallow his anger until he would be able to do something with it and concentrate on the arms that were folding him close and the hand that was carding through his hair and the mumbled, unnecessary apologies and just being held be the one who had his heart and whom he had thought he might never be able to cuddle up to again and any minute now he was going to make the dwarf lower himself to the floor so that he would be able to crawl into his lap and - 

_Thorin!_.

~ ~ ~ ~

A calloused hand once more cupped a soft cheek.

“You will come back to me.”

The king was favoured with a glare.

“Will you squeeze my bottom again if I do?”

“Yes.”

~ ~ ~ ~

There were many things the dwarf king found impossibly endearing – not to mention irresistible – when it came to his One´s peculiar habits but the righteous indignation that was usually accompanied with a flush of his cheeks (up to the tips of those pointed ears, if Thorin was very lucky) whenever he deemed his intended´s advance´s too personal for any surroundings they might find themselves in was very high up on his mental list of His Halfling´s Adorable Idiosyncrasies And Quite Unnecessary Qualms.

And Thorin found himself facing a rather piqued, disapproving, delightfully pinked hobbit and was only waiting for the proverbial axe to fall in the form of what his nephews had taken to referring to as the Hobbity Finger Of Doom but apparently, and rather sadly, he was not going to be favoured with it this time and had to make do with that glare that did not at all make him quake and shuffle in his boots, whatever Dwalin had to say.

Behind those frilly little tea cups that his hobbit liked to push at the burly dwarf.

_Blackberry_ tea.

The king shuddered at the memory.

And he would _drink_ it.

If he had to.

If it would keep Bilbo with him, in his prison.

He was going to have to let the hobbit leave him again; leave him behind in his dark cell, taking away the only light that made his imprisonment more bearable. 

But he was alive.

Bilbo was alive.

And he had assured him that Kili would soon be well again.

And that the rest of the company was holding up. 

Fili.

His brave, eldest heir.

Pride surged through the king for a moment.

They were going to get out.

His hobbit was determined to come up with a way and Thorin trusted in his ability to find one. The hobbit had outwitted trolls, had escaped Goblin Town unscathed and had faced down Azog.

Elves were a mere picnic.

According to his imperturbable love.

And Thorin was to try himself at diplomacy.

And let Bilbo do the talking.

~ ~ ~ ~

He was going to have _words_ with the elf king.

He, Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire, was going to have words with the elf king. 

Many words.

Many, _many_ words.

So many words that Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, formerly Greenwood, was going to wish that he had not made his Guard patrolling his realm. 

Had never even _employed_ any Guard.

Certainly not any Guard that took to dragging exhausted, half-starved, injured dwarves close to a hobbit´s heart into any halls. 

To _interrogate_ them.

And then have them thrown into _cells_.

That had been bad enough.

But Bilbo, hobbit of a thinking mind that he was, could make some small allowance for that, at least. 

There was no love lost between dwarves and elves, there had been a fight, there had been spiders, resistance, stubborn muteness in the face of any questions. And so on and so forth. 

Yes. 

Fine.

Well, not fine but it explained the ire. 

A little.

Even if it was entirely and absolutely childish.

What it did _not_ explain and what was going to induce this hobbit to march up to the ornate throne and pluck out each and every pale hair that made up the elf king´s rather impressive eyebrows – slowly – was the elf king deciding it would further dwarvish-elven relations to _not_ inform his dwarven counterpart that the two missing members of his company had not met their brutal, untimely demise at the hands, or rather, stings of giant spiders.

That had been cruel.

Unnecessarily so.

Unfeelingly so.

Never mind – well, yes, he did mind, very much so, but that was another topic which he would sit his stubborn, ridiculous love down and enjoy an energetic debate about – a particular dwarf jumping to the immediate conclusion that it Had Been His Fault - what Thranduil had done, for the sake of playing games and gaining information was - 

Well, if his life wish was to become intimately acquainted with a murderous hobbit that wish could be granted.

Because _really_.

Well, yes, he was probably not going to strictly murder the elf but at the very least poke at him.

With one of Nori´s many needles.

Or two.

Steal his stupid elk.

(He would make Dori and Dwalin carry it if he had to.)

And he would shout.

By Yavanna, he would _shout_.

Like he was going to do any second now.

Now that he had reached the chamber.

Or perhaps he was just going to stand there and stare.

Or faint.

Or - 

_Really._

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _What_ do you two think you are doing?

~ ~ ~ ~

There was a gasp, which was followed by some scrambling and disentangling of long and hairy limbs.

“Mr Boggins -”

“It´s _Baggins_ , Kili. How many times do I have to tell you?” The hobbit directed his exasperated gaze at the other culprit, arms firmly crossed in front of his chest. “And I suppose you have discovered your affinity for dwarf-healing, Legolas?”

Kili frowned, turning back to the elf at his side, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten.

“Legolas? Your name is Legolas?”

“Aye.”

“You could have told me.”

Two elegant brows rose mildly.

“I did not think you cared to learn.”

There was a huff.

“You introduce yourself before you – you pounce on someone!”

“I did not pounce on -”

“You would not let me leave -”

“You are still hurt and - “

“That gives you no right to kiss -”

“ _Boys._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Don´t give me that look, Kili.”

“ _He_ started it.

~ ~ ~ ~

Eru, why did he ever leave the Shire.

It had, thus far, brought him nothing but trouble.

And he was quite certain his hair was going to turn grey any moment now.

It was all very well that Legolas had attempted to prevent Kili from leaving his bed to go in search of himself; the silly boy was still swaying on his feet when he tried to stand for more than but a short moment and a little too pale for Bilbo´s liking, but did the elf really have to capture his wrists and press the dwarf back onto the mattress and -

Yes, well.

Thorin would have a fit.

And then throw a tantrum.

And then glare.

And shout.

And threaten to disinherit his nephew.

Or he would. 

If Bilbo let him. 

Which he did not plan on doing and if the stupid dwarf thought he was going to permit him to turn this, uhm, youthful exploration (Yes. That. Quite. Thank you. No need to get further into it.) into a diplomatic skirmish he was going to inform His Majesty that he had chosen to pay court to a _hobbit_ and by the way, there had not been all that much courting going on and he would quite like for that to change, considering (well, when Thorin _took_ to the whole courting business he took to it quite dedicatedly and you couldn´t blame a hobbit for getting quite used to it. Enamoured. Even slightly addicted. Yes, well.) and perhaps he would simply possess himself of the dwarf´s bearded face and press his lips against - 

He never said his methods were ingenious.

Or constructive.

Overly.

And he _deserved_ another kiss.

After everything he had been put through. 

And Kili appeared to think along similar lines.

Or was it Legolas?

Kili had protested and squirmed and been unusually outraged for one with such a generally happy disposition.

Legolas had just stood there and looked on.

In that silent, calm, generally laudable but at that present moment very much misplaced elven fashion.

Which had, naturally, irked the young dwarf beyond endurance because _he hadn´t done anything, it was that strange elf who had refused to let him leave and had started to molest him and why did all the elves want to kiss him and him kissing the elf back had only been an accident and he wanted Fili and Uncle and it really hadn´t been his fault, Bilbo, and -_

If Bilbo had seen the small frown on the Mirkwood prince´s face he had given no sign of it and instead took to doing what hobbits – especially those suffering extensive exposure to a bunch of stubborn, odious, tiresome dwarves - did best.

Fussing.

After taking in a very deep, speaking breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It´s a good thing that you lot are by now used to all this fluff. And things. I hope. :)


	11. Dallying with the Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo requests to speak with the Elf King while Thorin receives an unexpected visitor, who may or may not cause the silver in his hair to take over.

“An audience.”

~ ~ ~ ~

And that was almost a twitch. Really, and Thorin insisted elves knew no emotions. It would be his pleasure to inform his stubborn dwarf that one only had to apply the right … yes, well.

He had words for the elf king and honestly, they had been lingering in that stupid forest too long already and the accommodation provided left much to be desired, on the whole.

He was going to insist that the next bed allocated to him would be furnished with a certain dwarf.

And a great number of pillows.

Fluffy ones.

Thorin _liked_ them.

To the point of hogging any and all of the same and Bilbo had had to physically assure that he would not find himself pillow-less at Beorn´s and - 

That had, of course, earned him a dwarf blanket.

A cuddly, _clingy_ dwarf blanket.

Because if Bilbo was cold it behoved Thorin, as his affianced husband, to see to his comfort. Or that was what the dwarf had insisted on reasoning on.

The hobbit had not had the energy to point out to his clearly befuddled intended that it had been the pillow-hogging that had irked him, not any incident with any blankets.

Besides, Thorin had been surprisingly skilled at that whole warmth-providing thing. 

And the cuddling.

Although he had, naturally – holding on to the remains of his respectable hobbit-ness, thank you – forbidden any Funny Things. Sternly.

Much to the dwarf´s grumbling displeasure.

Yes, they had indulged in Certain Activities before but he was certainly not going to endure more of any dwarvish smirks and innuendos and snickering than he had to.

When he was a _guest_. Somewhere.

And who knew how thick those walls really were.

No need to traumatise the animals.

And Thorin had still been hurt, too, so that had put anything even remotely strenuous quite out of the question.

No matter the protestations.

And attempts at tip-of-his-pointed-and-highly-sensitive-ear nibbling.

And feathery soft kisses to his shoulder.

And - 

Nope.

And _had_ the silly dwarf not groused and glowered at finding himself rebuffed. Bilbo had turned his head away as soon as a hint of a pout had made it onto the dwarf´s lips. 

Really.

Thorin could be such a fauntling.

The menace that he was.

If there was to be any funny business; of the proper, thorough, decidedly unrespectable kind; it was going to take place once they had reached the Lonely Mountain and had evicted the dragon from its halls and the chambers had seen some dedicated dusting and scrubbing which he was - 

Not going to think about when requesting a word with the elf king.

Or two.

~ ~ ~ ~

“If his majesty pleases.” _And even if his majesty doesn't._ But he was not going to mention that to the elf he had accosted. Yet. “If you would be kind enough to inform King Thranduil _now_.” Never let it be said that a hobbit could not stare an elf into doing his bidding. Even if he had to crane his neck and would be in need of a massage to the same later. _Must_ those First Borns be that tall? Really.

The expression on the elf's face could be called affronted. Mildly. As much as an elf was able – or rather more willing – to openly express their displeasure. Nevertheless - 

“I will inform King Thranduil.”

And that was even a bow.

Bilbo was nearly impressed.

Well, he would be. Were he not entirely past being impressed by anything an elf could do. 

And he much preferred those running around in Rivendell.

Except for Legolas.

Maybe.

Which he was not even going to mention to Thorin. 

Yet.

Who knew – he might not even have to mention that thing that he had, uhm, seen, either. Kili had certainly protested enough at the merest notion of - 

Could he possibly claim temporary, befuddled blankness of mind? He supposed if it came to the worst he _could_ get away with it. Given their surroundings. And how long they had been trotting through that accursed forest on practically empty stomachs and close to being dehydrated and then there had been the spiders which would traumatise anyone into stupidity, surely, and – and - really, if Kili _liked_ kissing elves then his uncle would just have to learn to live with it. He would simply remind him that _he_ enjoyed kissing hobbits. Who also came with pointed ears. Which a certain dwarf king had an inexplicable fondness for. Where nibbling was concerned.

And such.

And he was very willing to continue to indulge that little fetish but if the stubborn mule of a dwarf was thinking of having his little fancies seen to he would have to learn the fine art of _compromise._

Or something.

Which would quite definitely have to involve the survival of the Prince of Mirkwood. 

If only in the name of diplomacy.

Which was something all his dwarves should take to.

Here and there.

A little.

Or a lot.

Except for Balin, perhaps.

And as for Kili - 

He did not think that the king would harm his younger nephew (there would be shouting and ranting and snarling and wounded looks and suffering silences and quite a bit of sulking … but no physical harm. Probably. Certainly not if he had anything to say to it. Or to distract.) and if the younger Durin had any common sense at all (debatable, seeing the silly boy took it into his head to stay and stand his ground against gigantic many-legged creatures rather than take himself off to Where It Would Have Been Safe and Bilbo was not at all impressed that it had all happened due to misplaced courage and affection, no, thank you, he most certainly was not!) he would refrain from acquainting his already sorely afflicted relative with the sordid details – Eru knew what those boys had been up to before he had chanced to happen upon them (and Eru could quite keep those absolutely not at all necessary details to himself, thank you kindly!) - and blame it on momentary -

Well, something or other.

Which was giving this poor hobbit a headache.

His own romantic situation was quite enough for one much tried hobbit to deal with.

And he had much rather there was a lot more of the romantic in the situation and that could only be accomplished once he got his exasperating love and companions out of that blasted wood and oh, there was going to be a whole lot of the romantic going on and the dwarf could see if he liked it because - 

“King Thranduil will see you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I have no wish for your presence, elf.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Talk.

The elf wished to - _talk_.

Thorin snorted.

His adorably insistent hobbit might be of the opinion that diplomacy would be the best course of action if they wished to make it to the Mountain before the light on Durin´s Day faded out but his One´s interactions with the _First Born_ had been thankfully limited and their small burglar could not know of the perfidious -

It had been enough of a strain on his endurance to be forced to tolerate the overtures made to his intended by the sons of the Lord of Rivendell and Thorin was not certain that he would find it in himself to bear more of the same or any further _hogging_ when it was him who should receive the majority of the share of Bilbo´s attention and affections. They were still courting. And it had been brought to his attention that he had been rather remiss in his endeavours – how was he supposed to pick a blasted bouquet when he found himself imprisoned and at the mercy of his arch enemy?! - so it behoved him to focus on assuring that his hobbit was occupied with himself. 

He was merely being attentive. 

And mindful.

There were rituals to observe.

And traditions.

And Bilbo Baggins _had_ to know that he was cherished.

Like the precious jewel that he was.

Even if Thorin might have botched it up. 

A little.

Previously.

Unwittingly.

Hobbits were incredibly strange creatures.

How was a dwarf to know that - 

Talk.

To an _elf_.

The king grumbled.

He was going to insist that if his One chose to burn his ears with talk of Compromise and Diplomacy and You Will Behave, Thorin he was going to have to be present and face him so that he would get to at least enjoy the appearance of the flush on those soft, round cheeks when his little love turned all demanding and exasperated and flustered; not whisper to him in his already much tried mind. 

Not that he was ever going to admit to anyone that he was hearing Bilbo´s voice.

Or anyone´s.

It was that blasted elvish prison!

And there were many other, different things, he wished the hobbit to whisper to him in preferably different surroundings and he supposed if he wanted for them to reach his ears in the nearer future he _was_ going to find himself obliged to favour the elf that had deigned to seek him out with his reluctant attention.

Hmpf.

He was going to collect the reward he deserved.

While burying his hands in those honey-coloured curls.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Kili”.

The young elf inclined his head.

Just so.

Calmly.

Serenely.

He was going to wring his neck.

Bilbo could say what he liked, the elf deserved to meet with an untimely demise. 

To think that he had the audacity to - 

Thorin wished the company´s hobbit was there with him; in the dark, damp cell. If only so that he could take a moment away from the madness that was surrounding him to present his entirely too optimistic One with the evidence of the happy truth that was the lack of any common sense and prudence existing within the breasts of the pointy-eared, treacherous, unfeeling, tree - 

He could not possibly bury his face in his hands.

That would be -

No.

But he could -

~ ~ ~ ~

“You wish to court _Kili_. My _nephew._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Legolas inclined his head again, meeting the stony expression on the dwarf king´s face with apparent equanimity.

In truth, the elf prince felt unusually flustered and mildly surprised at his own disquiet; faced with the intense scrutiny of the kin of the one he had but a moment ago declared his intentions for. 

It had not been his intention.

Kili – Prince Kili – had begged him to seek out his brother and uncle and to bring him news of how they fared, stubbornly assuming that his hobbity uncle had not quite told him the truth while he had meanly bullied him into lying down and being A Good Boy, and short of using physical means of preventing the dark haired dwarf´s escape from his sick bed – once more (Legolas´ ears burned slightly at the recollection of what had transpired during that first attempt) - the only manner of placating the injured son of Durin had been to yield to his entreaties and so he had found himself dismissing the guards on duty and facing Thorin Oakenshield´s wrath.

He did not understand.

In all his many years on Arda, he had never experienced anything of the like.

His soul had reached out and he could not have stopped himself from cradling the injured dwarf to his chest while hurrying back to his father´s halls the same way he had not even considered to not rush to his aid in his battle against the spiders; the discord and dealings between their races having been of no import at that moment. 

It had taken but one look into those very dark eyes and - 

Legolas had not spoken of it; to anyone.

But the inexplicable pull had taken him to the healing chamber and Kili´s side and if his friends and his father´s guard had taken to wondering about their prince´s strange comportment he had not dignified those looks and whispers with his notice.

All that had mattered was for Kili to get well; until he could - 

It was strange; this tingling sort of emotion.

Was that what love was?

Was that even possible?

Kili, at least, had not taken kindly to his presence.

When he had been rather more awake.

How he had wished to -

But Legolas could not forget those words the dwarf prince had let fall.

They had - 

Plagued him.

He frowned at the recollection.

Never before had thoughts of that direction interfered with his nightly rest.

Nor his duties.

He had always been alert; dedicated in his training, focused in his endeavours.

But when he considered the possibility of one of his brethren taking those enticingly soft lips - 

Legolas had not been in his father´s prisoner´s presence for more but a mere moment when he blurted out his wish to court the dwarf´s kin.

He had, quite possibly, surprised himself more than he had astonished the exiled king.

But recollecting his surroundings and the circumstances of his having met the young dwarf and that all the prisoners had been all that had been vocal about their determination to escape from his father´s realm - 

He inclined his head to affirm his intention.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You came to request my permission for a courtship of my youngest sister-son.”

“No – that is – I mean -” The elf prince´s cheeks bore a hint of a flush as he faced the mildly mockingly raised brow. Legolas straightened, proceeding with more conviction after a brief pause. “Your pardon, King Thorin. It had not been my intention. I came at the behest of Prince Kili. He expressed his fear that Master Baggins did not -”

_"Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Small hands had gone onto wide hips; a hairy foot tapping as the hobbit eyed his intended with clear disapproval.

This speaking stance was met with stubbornly crossed arms.

“He deserved it.”

“Thorin.”

“No.”

“You attacked the _Prince_.”

“He wants to _court Kili!_ ”

“They may have kissed but -”

“Have - how _dare_ -” 

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh.

So Thorin had _not_ known that.

Well, he was allowed his clumsy moments, surely.

And - 

Bilbo just so prevented his afflicted love´s repeated assault on the young elf, who, once he had shaken off his stupor over the surprising turn of events, had risen from the stone floor, calmly dusted off his tunic and took to watching the proceedings from one corner of the cell, arms folded and fair head tilted to one side in mild interest.

He would have to thank Legolas later for not making a fuss about, uhm, _things_ and refraining from calling for the guard. 

Perhaps he should also explain the dwarves´ exasperating, even if slightly endearing, tendency towards over-protectiveness and claim-stacking where their assigned burglars were concerned. 

Especially in the case of a certain dwarf king.

Who was in So Much Trouble.

But that was for later.

Once he had dealt with the Elf King and they had left that confounded forest and there would be a private chamber into which he could drag the idiotic dwarf and - 

The hobbit grabbed hold of the front of his dwarf´s tunic and pulled, until he was eye to eye with his lovely, tiresome suitor.

“Thorin Oakenshield -” Gods, but the dwarf was cute when he was being mulish! “If Kili wants to be courted by an elf then you will let him be courted by an elf!” Those eyes were really quite insanely beautiful - “ _You_ are dallying with a _hobbit_. “ And quite expertly so, when Bilbo thought about it. Which he wasn´t, at that precise moment. At all. Of course. So - “Yes – and if you want any further dallying to be happening you will listen to what Legolas has to say -” Really. It was entirely unfair to look at one single hobbit as if one planned to eat him! _Did_ the dwarf have to practically smoulder - “And thank him for rescuing both your nephew and myself.” Nope. He was most certainly _not_ going to kiss that pout away, thank you. 

Besides - 

They had company.

Really.

The cheat!

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at his dwarf, who adopted such a look of blatant innocence that it took all his hobbitish respectability to not consign his hobbitish respectability to the Orcs and move his hands to the two braids and bring that shamelessly tempting mouth within quite easy reach and - 

But one of them had to be mindful of the proprieties, not to mention the priorities, and that person would clearly not be a certain dwarf king and besides, he had marched down to the dungeons with a purpose and nearly irresistible opportunities aside, he was going to bring some order into the entire shabby business.

Without knocking some dwarven and elven heads together. 

No matter how much they deserved it.

And how many of his most pressing problems that would solve.

Yes, well.

You couldn´t blame a hobbit for -

Bilbo let go of the crumpled fabric and turned towards the third party in the cell.

~ ~ ~ ~

“I forbid it.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was attempting to break him.

Bilbo had got tired of their _dallying_ and had decided to take up with his greatest nemesis, expecting the Elf King to shower him with all the proper gifts and attentions and correct procedures while Thorin had failed to - 

Small hands had taken possession of his face and the king was compelled to look down into the mildly exasperated face of the one who had wormed his way into the deepest, darkest recesses of his cold heart.

He could not bear -

He was not going allow his One to -

“Thorin. It is only dinner.” One thumb had started to stroke a bearded cheek. “And Thranduil agreed to move the company to proper accommodations. Fili will be able to see Kili. _You_ will be able to see your _boys_. If I had to sit through an entire evening playing footsie with Sauron himself for you to be released from this _awful_ place I would even offer to throw in a foot rub! And if you don´t stop being foolish – because how can you _not_ know that no-one has it in their power to take me away from you when – _umpf_ -!

~ ~ ~ ~

Really.

Not that he was not fond of the dwarf´s methods of conveying affections but – Bilbo looked down at the state of his waistcoat and sighed – but now he had to go and change into another set of the clothes that the elves had provided for him before he joined their king at dinner and Eru only knew how he was going to hide that particularly impressive mark on his neck and - 

The hobbit sank down onto the bed, raising his knees to his chest and sighed.

It was a start.

He had got Thorin out of that horrible cell; the boys would be reunited (he could only hope Kili would not immediately acquaint his older brother with the, uhm, dealings he had, uhm, enjoyed, with a certain elf prince... one Durin practically having an apoplexy was quite enough on one day, thank you) and the rest of his friends would finally receive some proper rest and enjoy a little comfort. The elves that would be patrolling the corridors and guard the doors were just a minor glitch, in the grand scheme of things.

All that was left for him to do was to convince King Thranduil to let them leave his kingdom so that they would still be able to reach the Lonely Mountain in time for Durin´s Day. 

And not murder the arrogant sod during the process.

Well, what did anyone expect, really?

He had been subjected to a company of thirteen dwarves for quite a number of months at that stage!

Frankly, it was a miracle that he had managed to hold on to as much of his respectability as he had. 

Not to mention his dignity.

He shuddered to think what his neighbours would have to say if they saw him now.

But that was neither here and there at that present moment – he had an elf king to join.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! It lives! Sorry for keeping you waiting so long, real life gave me a lot of sour lemons these past few months and it was hard to find into writing this sort of silly fluff again with the frame of mind I was in. Let me assure you though that no matter how much time a new chapter might take to appear, I have every intention of finishing this, so you can at least trust in that. Thank you for sticking with me. :)


	12. Sick Hobbits Must Be Humoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of a forest, into a town on a lake.
> 
> Or The One With All The Fluff. Or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for the lovely Chamelaucium and everyone who may be in need of some shameless fluff pre- (or post) today´s teaser trailer. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments, they are really very much appreciated. <3

There was the sound of a door slamming, followed by heavy boots stomping down the hall and voices raised in an argument. 

The towel dropped to the floor without ceremony.

“ _Kili!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

The Company had been in Lake Town for five days.

Thorin´s mood had not improved during those five days.

He had been made to travel down a river in a barrel, of all undignified methods of transport, cramped into the confined space while raging in the incessant fear that his burglar – whom he was going to shackle to his side and never let go again once he had shouted at him and put him over his knee (and kissed him senseless) – should be harmed in any way making his own escape from the Elven King´s Halls.

_On_ a barrel.

The barrel he had forced _Thorin_ into.

Threatening to withholding his attentions if he did not comply.

Those of the physical kind.

In front of the rest of the Company.

Who, while thankfully barred from observing the shocked hurt on his face as they were already firmly ensconced in their own wooden conceptions, did not hesitate to prove themselves entirely devoid of even the barest minimum of respect for Royalty and contributed to the energetic debate with cat calls and whistles and _suggestions_. And that was just his nephews. Whom he was going to disinherit. And he had no _need_ for any suggestions. He was very well able to satis-

Bilbo had travelled down the wild, icy river on top of a barrel and Mahal knew how many times he had lost his hold and been in danger of going under and if Thorin had gone beyond what a hobbit´s tender sensibilities considered acceptable in his thunderous approach - reproach - he had been justified in it. 

Bilbo could have died.

And if Bilbo had died then everything - 

And if the hobbit could not see that then the hobbit was welcome to bask in his sulk.

_He_ would not be the one to apologise.

Not for voicing his opinion of the impractical, unnecessary, harebrained -

_Mahal_ , he had lost his temper.

When he should have expressed his gratitude and admiration and his relief that had been beyond measure – which other members of the Company had taken to without compunction. 

Fili and Kili had practically hung off the hobbit and he had been of a good mind to march over and forcibly remove them and throw them back into the water.

Except - 

He had missed his boys.

Seeing them both alive - 

He _had_ marched over but only once they had released their quarry and had pulled both his sister-sons into his arms, and if they had clung to him in the manner of small children and he had whispered of his pride to them there had been no other place on Middle Earth he would have rather found himself in.

Almost.

For to complete his family - 

But Bilbo had turned away from their little group and had been helping Bombur remove the remains of his own barrel from around his legs.

There had been no time for that.

He was King.

Leader.

Amends could come later.

~ ~ ~ ~

Five days later and he still had not been able to make full amends.

And he hated being barred from the chamber.

While others were allowed inside.

If anyone should be allowed into the chamber it was _him_.

He was the hobbit´s _intended_.

He was _King_.

But Oin had taken one look at him and had him barred from the room! Barred from taking care of his _One_ ; from brushing away those soaked, wayward curls, barred from holding a limp little hand in his own strong, calloused one, barred from bringing gentle relief to fever-hot forehead and cheeks with a soft, wet cloth -

He was not going to accept his banishment any longer.

He had to see the hobbit.

He had to see that Bilbo was getting better, no matter the assurances of those few permitted to haunt the sickbed.

It was ludicrous to assume that he would “ _only unnecessarily excite their hobbit when all that Master Baggins needed was rest and to take his medication_ (No, you will _not_ be the one administering it to him, Your Majesty, you will only wilt at the sight of those puppy eyes when he thinks to refuse it – the raspy, insulted mumble from the occupant of the man-sized bed that contained the word “Kili” was paid no heed to by either opponent -). All he wanted to - 

Thorin brought the hammer down with additional force, wiping his sweating forehead with his free arm. 

If it had not been for the forge he had been able to channel the worst of his frustration in... 

To think he could have spent his hours with Bilbo while he was forced to endure the Master of the Town´s repulsive, fawning attentions. But they had been provided with a house and clothing and food so he had sat at that feast – and the one that had followed it. And the one after. - and had swallowed the most scathing of his thoughts before he could voice them as well as his ever growing disgust and had arranged his features into something that could be called – pleasant. 

He had thought. 

Then rest of the time he had watched his nephews charming themselves into the assembled Men´s good graces (and they had learned their techniques from their father. And their mother. Thorin certainly had nothing to do with those winning smiles and flirting smirks and he was going to have to disinherit them if they kept at it -) – and if he had noticed his younger sister-son´s partially forced high spirits he had kept that observation to himself (Thorin absolutely had no wish to ponder certain things that a certain elven princeling had put before him in a certain elvish dungeon they had only recently escaped from. No matter if his clearly befuddled little love thought it _cute_.). 

That day, marking almost a week of their stay in Lake-Town, had thus far been blessedly devoid of any summons ingeniously wrapped up in an invitation and Thorin had taken to metal once Dori had shooed him away from a sleeping Bilbo´s door. 

Next time he was going to let it slip how he had chanced upon Dwalin and Nori in that alcove and - 

It would appear that everyone was allowed to be amorous with their chosen one except for _him_. 

And he did not even wish to be amorous with the hobbit – fine, not _much_. Immediately. Not until he was well again. - all he wanted to was to _see_ him but was he permitted even the smallest glimpse to ease his heart? 

Apparently, that was how kings were treated those days. 

He should make _them_ face the dragon and - 

“Still sulking, laddie?” 

~ ~ ~ ~

“I am in no mood for your levity, Balin.”

The older dwarf appeared quite unperturbed by the warning in the low growl of an answer and walked further towards the workplace, inspecting the metal that had been subjected to quite a bit of abuse. “Hm. Your Master Baggins will not be pleased with this gift, my king.” He raised a thick, bushy brow in twinkling suggestion. 

And was answered with a blank stare.

At times such as these Balin congratulated himself on his nearly inexhaustible well of patience. 

Even if he was less certain that he should congratulate himself on his unwavering fondness for the most royal members of the Line of Durin. But he had long come to terms with that being an unchangeable situation in his life and so he took the approach that was most appropriate at such delicate, complicated moments.

Which was decidedly lacking in further complication.

“He wishes to see you, lad.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He wanted Thorin.

He wanted to _see_ Thorin.

He wanted _his_ Thorin.

He wanted his Thorin, who was horribly frustrating and stubborn and rude and ill-tempered and quite unreasonably unreasonable but he was _his_ and if Bilbo, sick and hot and miserable and sweaty and with a pounding head and disgustingly runny nose and a meanly sore throat wanted him then he should bloody well _have_ him.

Clearly these dwarves needed to be educated on the subject of humouring a grumpy, cotton-in-his-mouth and fluff-in-his-brain afflicted hobbit.

Because Oin and Dori had informed him that while his Thorin had made attempts at visiting him, the unanimous decision had been to prevent the dwarf king from any contact with their burglar until their burglar was in a rather better shape to deal with the many idiosyncrasies that came with their beloved leader. Their burglar grouchingly pointing out he knew his majesty having to looked after his sick nephews when they had still been little dwarflings did not make his hard-hearted minders waver at all and since he was still rather cross with that silly, overbearing dwarf himself and quite nastily ill he decided to not waste any more energy on the mentally afflicted and proceeded to hide most of his overheated head under a fluffy pillow.

Thorin liked fluffy pillows …

And he liked Thorin and he was feeling much better, if still a little woozy and weak and he was going to finally have him and if any dwarf or any other creature on Middle Earth continued to thwart him in this this hobbit was going to be very, _very_ cross!

And so he had informed Ori.

Pointedly.

And while the scribe had turned quite an interesting shade of red and had lowered his eyes and had started picking at his many layered scarf he had, quietly but resolutely, replied that he was very sorry but he was not able to to overrule Master Oin´s decision and Dori would be _so_ disappointed and that had been the end of that because Bilbo was, unfortunately, very fond of Ori, and even in his quite exasperated, weak state his really quite impractical fondness overruled -

Well.

But Ori was not the only dwarf who could be bullied. 

Dwalin, at least, had seemed somewhat shaken at the idea of their resident hobbit´s wrath – good! Subtly mentioning the blackberry tea and almond biscuits had clearly been a very crafty notion! - and had stomped off to retrieve his absent king. Only to be waylaid on his way by a certain Ri-brother and the warrior dwarf had found himself honour-bound to chase after _that damn thief_ as a matter of principle – and knuckle-dusters. And his momentary lack of judgement and lapse into adolescent dwarf-hood once he had caught up with Nori – and his suddenly loose hair – 

No-one was allowed to mention it.

And that was the end of it.

Because it was the end of it.

He was not going to fall for the thief´s tricks again.

He had his duties.

To his King.

And that was all there was to it.

And he had only agreed to let his brother go in search of Thorin because -

Dwalin had cursed Nori as he pulled his torn shirt off his body.

Colourfully.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo´s fingers clenched and unclenched around the atrociously oversized piece of fabric that was currently serving as his nightgown.

At least it was fresh.

Un-smelly.

And un-scratchy.

Because really - 

He had been suffering enough.

With his head cold and lack of dwarven affection.

Of the kind that any normal, healthy hobbit who was not quite in his dotage yet and quite in possession of all his faculties, mental and otherwise, thank you, should be rather more eager to receive. If a certain dwarf king was involved, that was. Who, even if this hobbit was still cross with him (Jealousy! Over _Thranduil_! Really. It was not as if he had enjoyed those three dinners in that aloof, unmoveable elf´s company. Yes, Thranduil was clever and probably a good king within his own realm but _Eru_ , Bilbo had wished to grab him by his ears and scold him like the arrogant, stubborn elfling that he most definitely was! To call allowing Thorin to think he was to blame for his death – and for his nephew´s – negligible means!), was very talented at bestowing suchlike affections on one. 

And if said dwarf king did not show up very soon this hobbit was going to cough all over his shiny - 

And those were flowers.

Well.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo crossed his arms and sniffed.

Flowers were all very well and good and pretty – and the ones that had come within his line of vision were quite the arrangement of kinds and colours and sizes and it was very hard to stay cross with a puppy-eyed dwarf who came into your room when you had been missing him and who held the hopelessly mismatched bouquet out in front of his person in a manner that was horribly endearing while entirely giggle-provoking at the same time because -

“They are flowers, Thorin. Not orcs.”

He was answered with a scowl.

And a faint blush on bearded cheeks.

And did that not improve his mood greatly!

Well, somewhat.

Because he was still very cranky and very much in the mood for scolding his stupidly endearing dwarf because of all the shouting at the scene of the demolished barrels and the stupid jealousy and the very worst offence that was letting his kin and company bully him into Not Visiting.

Some of his misgivings must have shown on his overly warm face because the dwarf opened his mouth - 

Only to close it again the next moment.

Bilbo was beginning to debate with himself whether the throwing of a pillow at tiresome suitors could be legally excused as an integral part of courtship when - 

“Bilbo. I need to hold you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I´m sweaty.”

“Bilbo.”

“I _stink._ ”

“You do n-”

“ _You_ are dirty.”

“I spent -”

“You will only catch my cold.”

“ _Bilbo!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Something largely incomprehensible was murmured into a solid chest.

“Ghivashel?”

The head that he been quite comfortably resting where it had been resting adjusted its position a little.

“I said – It was horribly rude of you to accuse me of flirting with _Thranduil_ when I was trying very hard to find a way for us to leave that cursed forest and quite, quite terribly mean of you to leave me here on my own when I wanted you!”

Thorin´s hand resumed its carding through the sweaty curls while he placed a soft, apologetic kiss on top of them.

“Forgive me. Azyungal.”

The hobbit in the king´s arms (and on quite a share of his body that included an _in his lap_ ) huffed and busied himself with the collar of the tunic that was decidedly in his way.

There.

Decidedly better.

And the dwarf had better humour him.

Seeing he had allowed him in his bed in his soiled state.

Although he _had_ insisted that those boots be removed first. Interrupted by quite a sneeze.

Which had made those bearded lips twitch. Rudely.

So he naturally had had to kiss them.

Decisively.

Once they had been within his reach.

At last.

The washing could come later.

And perhaps he would assist with it because he really was quite tired of being forced to remain in that bed and his legs would hold him up quite nicely, thank you very much. Or at least until they reached the bathtub into which he would not have any shame of sinking himself and if Thorin really was that troubled well, the dwarf could simply join him.

Stopping him from falling asleep and drowning and all those things.

Yes, he was quite pleased with those plans and would convince his dwarf of their merit but for now, he was very happy to continue with his creation of a lovely mark on the dwarf´s skin and Dori could throw as much of a fit as he liked, he finally had Thorin where he wanted him and one little mark would not make that much of a difference with all those tattoos and all that hair that adorned the king´s person.

Even if it was rather high up on a delectable throat.

Well.

He still had a little fever.

And hobbits with a fever could not be held accountable for their sense of direction.

Certain dwarves _never_ could.

So this hobbit continued to happily worry the soft skin right under an enticingly round ear and lavished it with soothing, apologetic attention which drew sounds from the dwarf that would, under normal circumstances., make a proper, respectable hobbit flush but sadly, Bilbo was already quite flushed and really had no way of establishing whether he had done anything that warranted any flushing. As it were - 

“Bilbo -”

And frankly, if he could have that deep, low rumble of a voice any tender hobbit sensibilities could march right back into their smials!

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin smiled softly down at the sleeping form of his burglar.

He was – content.

Almost – happy.

He had not lost sight of their ultimate goal; there was still a mountain to retake and a dragon to defeat and if they should be successful the work it would take to make Erebor inhabitable and flourishing again would span many years but for then, for that brief moment in that Men-made house in that dirty, poor town on the lake, he was -

The worst of Bilbo´s illness had passed and he had seen to it that his mulish little One took his medication and had also been allowed to bathe his feverish head with his handkerchief – the production of which had left the hobbit momentary speechless (You _stole my handkerchief? Do you even_ know _how much time I wasted that morning_ looking _for the bloody thing? No, I don´t care that it´s romantic, you obtuse dwarf! You had my_ handkerchief! _All this bloody time!_ It had taken the clever expedient of silencing his love´s outrage with all his appreciative passion for the hobbit to forget that particular misgiving. Momentarily. If he knew his soon-to-be-Consort.) - and his heart had been additionally eased with the understanding that his more recent transactions had been forgiven. He could only marvel at his hobbit. 

He could not promise to never lose his temper, Thorin was very aware of it, but he could and would attempt everything in his power to not cause him unjustified, unnecessary grief. 

There was no-one he trusted more than Bilbo Baggins. No-one he had more faith in.

The king shook his head fondly and proceeded to dry himself off with the towel that had been left next to the wash bowl. 

When he perceived the sound of stomping and shouting.

Dropping the towel, he made his way out of the room.

~ ~ ~ ~

“It is not my fault, Uncle! It´s -” Kili scowled and lifted one arm to point accusingly at the figure in the door frame - “ _Him_!” 


	13. Touch it once, Touch it twice.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili doesn´t like interference in his battles.
> 
> He likes the sight of a love bite on his uncle´s neck even less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don´t ask me what this is, I am not really certain either. My characters decided to do their own thing, even though I had plans for them. Insubordination galore. But on the plus side - no months-long wait, no? :)

“ _What_ is _that_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins woke to an empty spot next to himself on the bed.

Which had been the norm during most of his life, thank you, but now that there was someone to fill that emptiness and that someone had professed to have wanted – needed! - to hold him and now that someone was not holding him and really, he had resigned himself to staying cooped up in that room a little while longer and humour the dwarves in their motherhen-ing but that had been when there had been the promise of strong arms wrapped around him, or at least one being thrown over his form, he was willing to compromise on the matter, considering necks and spines and all that, while he napped and now there weren´t any at all. In fact, the only thing that had greeted him when he – fine, reluctantly but no dwarf of any even remotely fussy disposition needed to be told that! - cracked an eye open was -

Shouting.

Muffled shouting (thank Eru for small mercies that came in the shape and form of thick, wooden doors!) but – shouting. And stomping.

Was that _whining_?

Yep.

That was - 

It sounded like - 

Ugh.

He had quite enough to do dealing with his own emotionally constipated dwarf. 

Perhaps if he were to just turn around and bury his head underneath - 

Nope.

Not helping.

He could feel his headache coming back.

Right.

That was just - 

Oh, he had things to tell those dwarves.

Things.

Many, many things.

And then he would make them bring him honeyed tea.

And drag one of them back to bed.

Because really.

Bilbo tossed the blankets aside and talked his slightly insubordinate, uncoordinated feet into padding across the room.

~ ~ ~ ~

Kili had stopped short in his expostulations and glaring at the third party in the room, his eyes widening as his mind caught up with the horrible, unspeakable, traumatising truth that no loving, impressionable nephew should ever be forced to deal with.

He pointed an accusing finger at the offending sight and -

Whimpered.

And then promptly turned and buried his face in a lean chest.

~ ~ ~ ~

Legolas was – confused.

He tilted his head to look down at the shaggy mop of hair that had attached itself to his tunic-clad front and tensed a little as a pair of arms came around his waist. 

And held on.

Kili had not taken well to his presence.

He had not expected the dwarf to greet his sudden appearance with any semblance of joy – his heart, pulling so strongly towards Kili, might have made him cautiously hopeful but recalling how all he had received from the younger prince had been glares and recommendations to take himself off and when he had permitted himself a small, soft smile at the pouting expression that had greeted him that one time, upon entering the room, which had earned him a book flying past his ear -

Kili had kissed him.

Had returned his kiss.

Surely that meant - 

He had kept the stirrings of his heart and the unusual impatience to himself. It was strange and unprecedented and also uncalled for. He was a prince. A warrior. A dwarf, of all beings, should not hold any power over him. And yet -

He had been truthful in his blurted admission to Thorin Oakenshield. 

And it had been this truth that had led him to defy his father and to desert his friends and realm in pursuit of of a member of a race that he had been taught to mistrust and to despise for its selfishness, its love for gold and its lack of any tender feeling.

He had seen Kili defend the hobbit against an enemy he could not have hoped to defeat.

He had witnessed Bilbo Baggins´ worry and affection for the unconscious dwarf.

And he had been present when Thorin had learned of what he had believed to be the fate of his company´s burglar and his kin. 

Dwarves loved.

Fiercely.

And were fiercely loved in return.

If his father were to learn of the assistance he had lent the hobbit - 

It was of no matter.

He would give the dwarves his protection.

Even if it should earn him another slap to his face by an irate prince. 

Kili.

A hand came up to slowly card through dark tresses.

~ ~ ~ ~

Kili jumped and looked up at the elf with a scowl.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

That serene face regarded him pensively. Then -

“I was running my fingers through your hair.”

Kili nearly choked in his outrage.

“What - you – I – you can´t - you don´t just touch a dwarf´s _hair_! It´s not like we – that you – oh _Mahal_!” He grabbed hold of the green tunic and twisted its folds, bumping his head against that hard, warm surface again. And again. “I am too young for this! I should not be made to see this! Or hear this! Or think of this! And now I will never be able to _not_ think of this and Fili will _kill_ me if I keep him awake at night because of any nightmares and then Uncle will have to appoint a new heir because Fili will be too upset to rule when he notices what he has done and Mother will have his - _you are doing it AGAIN!_ ”

Legolas stilled his hand.

“Did you not wish for comfort?”

Kili lifted his head so that he could scowl at the slow elf. 

“We are not married.”

“We are not.”

“Exactly. We – of _course_ we are not!”, Kili spluttered, seemingly not appeased by the following of that – his own - logic. “You never even asked me! And you´re an -”

“You wish me to ask you.”

“Well, see, the thing is … if you go about cuddling dwarves and patting their hair you had better – wait – what?! _NO!_ I was just -” Kili looked around in some desperation, eyes wide and beseeching when they landed on his uncle again. Wait. This was all Uncle Thorin´s fault. Uncle Thorin had stormed in and had paraded …

Well, that thing.

That thing a nephew should never have to know about.

Ever.

Especially not if it involved their favourite soon-to-be hobbity uncle.

He did not want to know _that_.

Why would anyone make him know _that_?

It was more than anyone should ever be allowed to make him know!

What if he were to allow Legolas - 

_NO!_

Besides, the stupid elf had considered him too weak to deal with those Men on his own! Fili might be the sword-fighter but he was very well able to hold his own against a few drunkards and did _not_ need the interference of a poncey, pointy-eared, unattractive -

Kili sniffed and crossed his arms.

“ _What_ are you even doing here?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“You have my thanks, Prince Legolas.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin would have been very tempted to turn on his booted heel and make his way back to Bilbo´s room the moment he happened upon his nephew´s and the Prince of Mirkwood´s bickering but for two reasons.

One – it would have prevented him from shouting at them.

Two – he had left the room barefoot. 

(It was all Bilbo´s influence. Doing. Fault. And it was also Bilbo´s fault that he stood before those two _children_ half naked and with his braids in disarray and that spot just below his ear bearing that very purple -)

Insufferable hobbit.

He was _not_ ashamed of his love for his One.

And they were not at a Council session.

Praise Mahal.

Hm.

Perhaps he should appear at one of them shirtless and with the evidence of his hobbit´s surprising and welcome passionate tendencies on his body once Erebor had been reclaimed.

The long, tedious debates Thorin still recalled from the days before Smaug, under his grandfather´s rule - 

Or he would make the halfling preside over them with him. 

Seated next to him.

Close to him.

On his lap, preferably.

As for his hobbit wearing any clothes - 

The king growled.

Bilbo was his to feast his eyes on, no stately, pompous council member would get even the tiniest glimpse of all the beauty hidden under those various, flowery, colourful layers. 

No, he would endure those long hours in the name of duty and with the thought of Erebor´s restoration in the back of his mind and if he should take to imagining a rather more cloth-less Consort that would be his prerogative.

As husband.

Ruler.

King.

Especially as King.

And husband.

Husband.

A slow smile appeared on the King´s face.

Bilbo would be his husband.

His One.

His Consort.

His.

He would present the hobbit with his ring and ask him to bind himself to him and he would make him happy and cherish him and fulfil his every wish and - 

“Uhm, Uncle?”

~ ~ ~ ~

He was going to murder his nephew.

He was perfectly within his rights to murder his nephew.

And the elf.

Ill.

To assume that he was _ill_ just because he - 

Smiled.

And to further suggest that the _mark_ might not be at all what his assumption had been but possibly the result of an _insect_ \- 

Poison.

Thorin had wanted to bury his face in his hands.

And pull at his braids.

The moment he saw Dis again - 

At least that elfling had silenced his wayward – and Thorin had resented the hopeful tone in his sister-son´s voice when that ingenious thought had befallen him! A bite by _Bilbo_ was much superior to – nephew. 

But since the Prince had chosen to cover Kili´s mouth with his hand while not hiding what he appeared to think was a smile - 

Thorin wished Kili had bitten him.

And not just threatened to do so Next Time.

While making sheep´s eyes at the elf.

Which he could have perfectly tolerated if the elf had not made That Face while looking back at his nephew.

That face that Bilbo would refer to as _cute_.

Which Thorin considered extremely unnerving.

Elvish.

Nauseous.

But he was willing to leave both nephew and elf to it if it meant that Bilbo´s rest would go undisturbed.

Once his hobbit was healed and the blasted elf gone he could still take his nephew by the ear and - 

Thorin narrowed his eyes.

Why was the elf even there?

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin had gone back to what he was known to do best.

Towering.

Or as much as one could tower in the presence of a being which was a good head taller than him.

But even with that small limitation his very posture was still one of _presence_ ; of a bearing that spoke of royalty and of command.

Bilbo was almost impressed.

And secretly, quietly attracted to the sight of the glowering, imposing dwarf king who was glaring down (Up? Really, those specifications were really very tiresome at times!) an elven warrior prince while wearing nothing but a loose pair of very appealingly falling trousers; thick, strong arms crossed in front of his very naked chest (which was horribly, rudely distracting when one was quite cross with a dwarf for having un-cuddled from one just to go in pursuit of two _fauntlings_ who had apparently decided to interpret the time honoured tradition of courting in the way of bickering and nagging and denial - but he was not going to mention that, of course).

Any other time he might even have shared some of these thoughts but right at that moment, he was rather more inclined to - 

Sneeze.

And then sneeze again.

And - 

Oh dear.

That glower had just fixed on him.

That was a little - 

He had had quite enough of dwarven mothering to last him until -

Well, it _had_ been rather sweet of Thorin to go and tell the boys off for -

Only he was very much able to decide for himself when he needed to be in bed and when not.

And the dwarf could have just stayed with him and then they would not be in that – that – situation!

And it was most certainly not _his_ fault that he found himself wandering around in a nightgown that was at least three sizes too big for him!

And no-one in this room was interested in his shoulder, thank you!

Well, he hoped that one person was, of course – in fact, he knew that person to be very _much_ interested in his shoulder, especially if on strategic display, but - 

Oh no, certainly not!

~ ~ ~ ~

One arm came up and a finger poked the king´s chest.

“Do not even think about it, Thorin Oakenshield!”

“Bilbo -”

“No.”

The king growled.

“You should be in bed.”

“Then you should have kept me there.” Bilbo, having crossed his own arms – if only to do something with those horribly sleeves which really did nothing at all for his proportions; over-long, exasperating things that they were – eyed his dwarf unrelentingly. “Clearly, you had something better to do.”

“I did _not_ -”

“One would think that His Majesty had rather enough to do with his own - “ Another sneeze - “ - courting.”

“Our courtship has -”

“Courting?! I´m _not_ court -”

“Mellon nîn, King Thorin is right to advise you -”

The hobbit´s finger started to wag.

At all three occupants of the room.

After another.

With a different message.

Seemingly.

Dangerously.

Terrifyingly.

Strangely, the only one somewhat immune to the doom it promised was the Prince of Mirkwood, but then, elves were generally understood to being rather more dull creatures so Bilbo was going to try to not think _too_ badly of him.

Seeing he had very kindly rescued them in Mirkwood.

And assisted him in their escape, when his stubborn mule of a father - 

And apparently, he had also elbowed the man who had insulted Kili´s height and looks nicely in the face while raising his bow at the one who had been approaching the busily engaged dwarf from behind and really, it had to be a very special Durin trait to not recognise an _interest_ when it was so blatantly, obviously before them!

He was going to have to sit the youngest Durin down, over a nice cup of strong tea, and possibly some cupcakes, and explain to him, very kindly, that insulting and scolding the one who was very clearly hoping to Fix One´s Interest With One – and whom one had, rather enthusiastically, if a hobbit´s feverish memory served correctly been _kissing_ \- on a bed – was well, very Durin-ish, yes, but also very, uhm, rude.

Even if poor Legolas seemed to take the glaring and the huffing and the contrariety quite well. 

Bilbo supposed that was the good side to that famous elven stoicism.

Still, it would not do to have a confused, befuddled elf amongst them – and no matter how much Kili and his uncle might be protesting, they would at the very least treat the poor boy to dinner! - especially if what Legolas had informed them of (namely that Azog had come in search of the Company and had engaged the Mirkwood guard in battle, which had prompted his father to practically barricade his kingdom and to forbid those under his rule to leave its borders – the Prince had turned a little pink around the ears at the sudden, bright smile that _that_ information had brought onto Kili´s face – Bilbo could practically hear the wheels turning in the young dwarf´s head) were true.

And he had no cause to doubt Legolas on this, even if it was clear to Bilbo at least that his reason for following the Company to Lake-Town had not been altogether altruistic.

And the glance at his own dwarf told him that someone at least shared his conjecture.

Honestly.

There really was no need for Thorin to go quite that much into Protective Uncle Mode.

He was going to have to distract the silly dwarf, if anything was to come of that sweet, blossoming venture.

Preferably, that was going to happen in his room.

Which, from there on out, was going to be _their_ room. Or at least for however long they should find themselves staying in this town on the lake. Which hopefully wasn´t gong to be all that long because - 

Too much water for this hobbit, thank you.

And he supposed he could not avoid seeing that Master again. Whom he had taken an immediate dislike to. His sickness had nothing to do with it, he felt the man to be -

Untrustworthy.

Apart from being quite - 

Grotesque.

Slimy.

Yes, that.

Grotesque and untrustworthy. And slimy. 

And his table manners were atrocious.

And Bilbo had been travelling with _dwarves_.

He was going to make certain that he would be quite near Thorin when he had to be in that man´s presence again.

Which was probably what was going to happen as it was; seeing the overbearing, high-handed, completely offensive and entirely rude dwarf had just hauled him up and put him over his shoulder and was carrying - _carrying_! - him off to presumably his – their – room and -

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo lifted his arm and eyed his dwarf with loathing.

“I hope Legolas proposes to Kili while they are alone.”

Thorin merely grunted, continuing in his work that was the disrobing of his erratic One, taking care to gently pull the fabric over a handsomely pointed ear.

“And then they will both live in Mirkwood and you will have to play nice with _Thranduil_ if you ever want to see Kili!”

“Hm.”

The second arm was urged to lift.

“Maybe they will even adopt an elfling and he will become your heir when Fili decides he is not one for matrimony!”

Thorin stilled.

“Bilbo.”

“What?”

“You are being absurd.”

The hobbit, having kicked the offending garment aside with one hairy foot, huffed and made to climb into the tub.

“Absurd? _Absurd_ , Your Majesty, is what we call it when _someone_ -” Bilbo sank into the blessedly warm water with a sigh of relief he would never, ever admit to - “- overrules the most common courtesy and picks a poor, defenceless hobbit up as if they were a _fauntling_ and carries them off to bed without so much as by your leave! Hand me the - _Thorin_! What are you – oh no. No, no, no, no – you are getting out of this tu– _excuse me_?! Did you just _splash_ me?!”

The King, who had indeed splashed his intended – but he felt he had, once again, been quite within his rights, seeing that any other method he had thus far employed had failed to silence his love, who was still suffering from occasional raspy coughing attacks – quite ignored his One´s outrage and rearranged matters so that he found himself seated with his back to the tub and a soft, warm grouchy hobbit bracketed by his thighs and leaning back against his chest. 

He was also in the possession of the soap.

And not afraid of using it.

“Stop talking.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo did indeed stop talking.

Eventually.

But that was merely because his mouth happened to be quite otherwise engaged and - 

Really.

He was going to make the dwarf lull him to sleep, for that.

Later.

When they had moved on to the bed.

And cuddled up in it.

Together.

And after more of the - 

Possibly.

But then, after that, he would most certainly make him - 

Sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly 10 000 hits on this, you guys! Wow. I´m honestly still amazed that even a handful of people are reading my work, given how peculiar (Hi, Erinye! ;)) my style is. Thank you so much! <3


	14. When In Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is angsting, Bilbo is worrying - when he is not fed up - and not only because of the pastry thieves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [authoressjean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean), who is my rock and has faith in my pitiful attempts at angst when I just want to hide from it. Under the bed.

“Lad, that pastry will start ta crumble if ya keep hitting it like that.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Dwalin was lucky.

Dwalin was oh so lucky.

Dwalin was oh so lucky that he was quite a lot taller and beefier and stronger and balder and fond of his blackberry tea and quite evidently _not_ Thorin because if Dwalin _had_ been Thorin then Bilbo would have felt obliged to grab the dwarf by his braids and pull at them with such strength that the unexpected force would hopefully cause some things to regroup in the dwarf´s big-headed head and make him tell a hobbit What Was Wrong.

It was Dwalin´s very great luck that he wasn´t that exasperating dwarf and only about half as exasperating so he put the dwarf onto baking duty instead.

It was the dwarf´s own fault for coming in to disturb him when he was busy imagining the lovely stretch of pastry was his cousin´s head!

The hobbit held out an imperious hand.

“I need half of the walnuts and half of the pistachios. And don´t steal any!”

Dwalin slowly released the handful of nuts that had somehow found their way into a curled fist that had been hiding behind his back. Trust the burglar to - _what?!_

The ruddy cheeks had turned a violent shade of red.

“I´m not going ta cook, halfling!”

Bilbo´s resulting look spoke volumes of his opinion of dwarves and of dwarves who happened to be warriors and dwarves who were members of the Line of Durin and who could currently be found in his – well not really his, of course, but he was staying at the place and was told, by the horrible Master no less, to make himself quite at home so this hobbit was going to make himself at least at home in the little kitchen because if he didn´t then he would have to go and pack up what was left of his meagre belongings and track back to the Shire – kitchen.

“Do I look as if I would _let_ you cook?”

The burly dwarf deflated a little – although he would challenge anyone to a fight who dared to mention the word “relief” in connection with that occurrence - and reached for the bowl on the counter.

_Crack._

“Thorin said he´s going ta cook for ya.” 

“Yes, well -” Bilbo attacked the mixture in his own bowl with renewed interest. “Thorin also said it was imperative for us to reach the Lonely Mountain before Durin´s Day. And look at us – oh, that´s enough walnuts, thank you! - Still in Lake-Town! You´d think your King would - _not_ that _hard_!” There was a smack that sounded suspiciously like the result of a spoon appliance - “Yavanna save me from the violent streaks of dwarves! They´re pistachios, Dwalin! Not _goblins!_ You don´t _need_ to treat them as if you want to squash -” 

The hobbit suddenly halted in his tirade and looked up at his helper with narrowed eyes.

“Dwalin.” Another, if a little more careful, crack, but Bilbo did not really regard that. He was much more interested in - “What have you done?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“No, Dwalin.”

The burly dwarf crossed his arms. Bilbo would almost accuse him of pouting but that wasn´t possible. At all.

Although - 

“Don´t care for the elf.”

Mulish, at the very least. 

Obstinately rock-headed. 

_Dwarvish._

Bilbo permitted himself an inward sigh.

“You don´t have to care for him, you merely have to leave him be.”

Dwalin grunted.

“Elf´s pestering my Prince.”

“Do I have to tweak your nose?”

Dwalin looked at the hobbit as if he had just dealt him a mortal wound. Interesting. Funny, even. It almost looked like the look Thorin had given him when he had told the dwarf to take himself and his block-headedness away that morning.

And Bilbo did not at all feel sorry about it because - 

Fine, he did feel sorry about it but that stupid, idiotic, stubborn dwarf and his absolute refusal to share what was going on in that rock infested head of his was enough to make a hobbit forgo second breakfast.

 _And_ elevenses.

If anyone must know.

And he was only baking because - 

Right.

So. 

Dwalin.

Who was most certainly _not_ going to continue to glare at poor Legolas across the table. Or the counter. Or his axe. Or his war hammer. Or any room. Even if the elf seemed to not be all that bothered about it. And if the silly, cuddly bear of a dwarf would not listen to his brother than he would listen to the resident hobbit because quite frankly, if Balin could not take sense into him than any of the other dwarves were doomed to fail as well. 

No, Bilbo´s partiality for his friends did not make him blind, thank you.

Only a little more lenient.

But certainly not in this matter.

Even if it was rather sweet to see a big, fierce dwarf like Dwalin acting very much like a clucking hen.

Which the dwarf denied, of course.

Offering up all that _It is my duty to look after the King´s heirs!_ nonsense.

Really.

Quite sweet.

Well.

“Kili is very well able to look after himself. And he has Fili practically glued to his side; if you thought that were be even more possible! Who – fine, take one of those cakes! But don´t come to me if your stomach troubles you after! - is giving Legolas enough grief as it is and – you are crushing the pistachios, again, Dwalin. Really -” The hobbit sniffed, having rescued his precious ingredients from their tormentor - “Having a member of another race in the family is not so bad, you know.”

The silence was almost deafening.

Then - 

“Thought ya had more sense, burglar.”

Bilbo bristled, while firmly ignoring that his ears had most certainly turned red.

Treacherous little things, those were.

“Don´t you have someone to chase through the house, _Mister_ Dwalin?”

“Nori´s out. Keepin´ an eye on that Bowman the elf has a fancy for. Or somethin´.” Dwalin snatched another cake from where they were supposed to still cool on a plate and took a slow, unhurried, unapologetic bite. “Word of advice, lad. Keep tha cuteness for the King. His Majesty´s besotted enough ta fall for it.”

Exclamations of _really quite terribly rude!_ and _will thank you to keep your large nose out of someone´s Private Business_ and _You will leave Legolas alone or there will be no pie for you after dinner!_ could be heard following the unperturbed dwarf out of the kitchen.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was not that he was worried.

He was just - 

Fine.

He was.

A little.

Maybe a lot.

But really, how was a hobbit to _not_ worry when the dwarf one had not only chosen to utterly and irrevocably, no matter the many idiosyncrasies and absolutely dwarvenish stupidities, lose his heart to somewhere between the Shire and the Carrock but had also followed on a completely suicidal mission mainly because Someone Else touching that gorgeous mane of silver streaked hair went quite against what one was, upon reflection, prepared to endure - as a thought. Idea. Likelihood. Thorin´s hair was his and that was the lovely end to it, thank you very much – suddenly became distant and taciturn – even for that dwarf! - and when you approached that dwarf to find out what in Eru´s name was going on you either received a quick kiss on your forehead – at first – or got almost rudely brushed off – later?

It was almost as if Thorin resented his getting well but Bilbo knew that to be absurd. The King has fussed and mothered and glared and glowered and cuddled – and yes, kissed and … things … later - while he had battled his cold and he had been just about able to stop the silly dwarf from feeding him chicken soup. With his own hand.

That bowl had come dangerously close to his lips.

And Bilbo _hated_ chicken soup.

That might make him a very unusual hobbit and he was very sorry, of course, if he had offended poor Bombur with his vehement, if a little raspy, refusal to even try it, but if there was one thing he could not abide it was chicken soup and especially not if any bits of turnips were involved in the matter, which there had been.

And Thorin really had not needed to stare in that entirely flummoxed manner when he had threatened to acquaint him with his expertise in _spitting_.

It could have been stones, if he had had a similar dislike of apples. Which he didn´t. Which his dwarf was really quite lucky about because that meant he would be happy to make him more of that apple pie he had seen him sneaking slices of away while at Bag End, once they had reclaimed Erebor.

If that should ever happen.

Frankly, Bilbo was fast losing faith in it happening.

Given how they were still in Lake Town and every hesitating and not-so-hesitating enquiry he had put before anyone who had anything to say – meaning his block-headed intended - as regarded their departure tended to result in a dismissal of one sort of the other. 

He was not to trouble his adorable little head about it.

Adorable.

Little.

_Really._

He would _know_ when they were ready to depart.

Yes, probably. As long as there were some hasty preparations and weapons and general noise involved, knowing his dwarves.

Those decisions would be made when it was _time_ for them to be made!

And had that not been a not at all impressive glower. Really, if Thorin thought to quell him with it after all that time - 

He was not yet the King´s Consort and not in the position to order any dwarf to do his bidding and he would do well to _remember_ that!

And that had largely wiped away his confusion and fuelled his anger.

For Thorin to say such things to him – in full presence of some members of the Company, too, and only because he had questioned how long it would take them to reach the Mountain …

And the dwarf had yet to apologise.

Or even look at Bilbo.

Properly.

And spend some time in his company – and that meant without the Company around. 

It had become quite clear, over the past few days, that the King under the Mountain had taken to avoiding his presence. During the day, at least.

Thorin still shared what had been his sickroom and now served as the hobbit´s bedchamber and still climbed into their shared bed every night, coming in long after Bilbo had gone to bed, and twice Bilbo had woken during the night to find himself surrounded by dwarven limbs and nearly unable breathe, but something had happened – was happening – and no matter how much Bilbo had tried to get the dwarf to share his burden with him, Thorin steadfastly refused. Either dismissively or – increasingly – angrily. And while Bilbo, his heart really quite stubbornly lost to the dwarf, much as he might be justified to scold the impressionable organ a little at that present time, considering the state of late, still found himself worrying, he also found himself reaching the end of his already dwarven-tried patience. 

If Thorin thought that he was going to agree to bind himself to someone who would not trust him with his troubles and his concerns the dwarf was going to learn that he had chosen the wrong hobbit for his adventure. And anything else. Mistrust, or even a predilection for bearing all of whichever weight on one´s own shoulders, were not this hobbit´s idea of a happy, healthy relationship. 

The tiresome, stubborn oaf was going to tell him what was wrong that very evening and would find himself sleeping on the wooden floor until next Astron if he as much as raised an imperious eyebrow! 

Or what the dwarf considered one.

Because all that brow was was - 

Yes, well.

No endearing eyebrow quirk would distract him this time.

Bilbo attacked his pastry again.

~ ~ ~ ~

He could not do it.

He would not do it.

He would admit to his having been mistaken, to having been wrong; to having made a hasty, imprudent decision. 

He would hand the reigns to Gandalf, let the wizard dictate how the mountain should be cleared of the wyrm. 

He would have the Arkenstone.

And his One.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hire a burglar to steal from the dragon.

One light on foot.

Who could pass unseen, if necessary.

He had thought the plan preposterous from the start, only grudgingly agreeing to travel to the Shire to meet the wizard´s choice on the same wizard´s pointed insistence. Frankly, he had been too exhausted for yet another battle. And the wizard had not been completely wrong. If they had to send someone into the mountain to determine whether the dragon was still alive it was practical to have it done by one who did not even belong with the Company.

Thorin saw no difficulty in taking such an approach; the presence of an outsider had no other reason and contracts would be signed. 

Only then a round green door opened and -

Bilbo could not go into the mountain.

Bilbo would not go into the mountain.

He would shave off his beard and cut off his braids before he permitted Bilbo to go into the mountain.

_He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye._

_You're nothing more than a pile of ash!_

Thorin´s grip on the frame tightened.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had ignored it, of course.

Had stubbornly put it out of his mind.

He thought he had been rather apt at being entirely obnoxious on the matter.

And then there had been the happy distractions provided by trolls and elves and goblins alike - 

Fine, not happy. Precisely.

Only Thorin had found his mind occupied by various other matters – and those did not even yet include the rather more pleasurable occurrences on the journey – the brilliant smiles and exasperated huffs and gentle touches and wagging fingers and surprising passion - so had been in the permissible position to firmly ignore that what would occur at the end of the quest.

Bilbo was to steal from the dragon.

His Bilbo, his little hobbit, his beautiful, fearless _One_ \- 

But he needed the Arkenstone.

The sight of Erebor, so dear to him, on top of the Carrock, filling him with such longing and hope …

He had spent what seemed like hours staring out at the snow-covered peak from the window, his mind and heart racing.

He had barked at his nephews when they enquired as to when they would finally set out, quite wiping their expectant smiles from their young faces; had ordered Dori to return the armour provided for them under the pretence of finding fault with the workmanship, had glared at the elf whenever he understood to have been the victim of any compassionate looks and – most importantly and shamefully -

Distanced himself from his One.

Bilbo knew that something was wrong, of course.

Unfortunately, Thorin had had the great misfortune to fall for what surely had to be the most annoyingly astute and persistent halfling in all of Arda. 

And he had snapped, eventually.

And regretted his words instantly, of course, but his hobbit had been clearly hurt and he had sworn to himself that he would never be the cause of Bilbo´s pain again.

He couldn´t bear to look at Bilbo.

When there was nothing he liked to do more in his life.

Except for embracing Bilbo.

And cuddling Bilbo.

Kissing Bilbo was also quite high on his list of Pleasurable Occupations.

As was exploring that still exotic body and mapping it out and - 

It was ironic that now that they finally found themselves resting in a proper bed, with the hobbit recovered from his illness, he could not – he would not - 

He had even taken to only joining the hobbit in that very bed once he expected the hobbit to be asleep.

Determined to not touch the hobbit.

To not even look at the hobbit.

At _Bilbo_.

 _His_ Bilbo.

But looking at Bilbo meant acknowledging Bilbo and acknowledging Bilbo meant acknowledging why he had come on the quest. Had been _asked_ to come on the quest. Thorin having had more selfish motivations played no part in it. 

Should not play any part in it.

Not when it came to his Kingdom and its people.

The King closed his eyes briefly.

Durin´s Day was almost upon them.

He abruptly moved away from the window.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Ow!”

“Try that again and I´ll smack more than just your finger. And don´t even think about trying any eyes on me.”

Fili, who had been in the process of making a loan of his brother´s favoured weapon, spiced up with his own Elder Sibling brand, of course, reached up to fiddle with a moustache braid, his mouth rearranging itself into something akin to a pout.

Thankfully, most of it was hidden behind his beard. 

Or so Bilbo thought. 

Because frankly, he did not really feel up to going through with his threat. And if he should be subjected to any more Durin cuteness when he was not at all in the mood for any Durin cuteness (he would much rather deal with a certain Durin grumpiness but it had continued to allude him all day) he would smack the Durin that tried it on him for that as well.

Pastry snatching was bad enough.

And just when he had trained Dwalin properly.

Dwarves.

Worse than any hobbit, when it came to baked treats.

And not at all apologetic about it.

He should make a vegetable pie for lunch the next day and watch them all tuck into it, trusting that their hobbit only had their bellies´ best interests at heart and then he would sit back in an oversized chair and enjoy their faces do all sorts of things and that would surely teach those dwarves to not - 

Well, no.

It was not the Company´s fault.

And he _had_ promised them all some pie, and those cupcakes for Kili. And he needed to find out what Legolas had a partiality for still. And perhaps make some quick shortbread for Thorin, seeing the dwarf had taken so much to it in Bag End...

Not that the dwarf deserved it.

And not that he was trying to sweeten him up. Or anything.

He was a respectable hobbit, thank you.

Mostly.

Well, he used to be, at all events.

But some milky tea – and yes, he would permit his dwarf to put his 2 lumps of sugar in it, no matter how his inner tea hobbit squirmed at the thought – and some shortbread to dunk into it might mellow the mood a little and Thorin would finally share his troubles and they could get somewhere because he was really quite tired of being angry and being worried and being subjected to a bunch of dwarves and all their dwarfness constantly was quite confusing and unnerving enough as it was and if their stubborn King should still refuse to cooperate, well, then he could at least hit him with the shortbread. 

In its non-dunked state. 

Yes. 

Excellent. 

So - 

Seriously?

Was that boy - 

Bilbo´s fist closed around the spoon.

~ ~ ~ ~

Fili rubbed his nose.

“Now you are just being cruel.”

“Don´t stick it into my bowls then.”

“ _That_ is a Durin Nose, Master Hobbit.”

“I am well aware of that, Master Dwarf.”

“Of course you are”, came the mumbled reply, while unteachable dwarven fingers made to snatch one of the small chocolatey wonders. 

Bilbo let it slide because - 

Wait.

The hobbit rounded on the dwarf.

“I´ll thank you to leave your Uncle´s nose out of it!”

Fili held up his hands, his eyes wandering to the threat that was the raised cooking spoon. He would have offered placating words, too, only his mouth was rather occupied, at that moment. Munchingly.

Their adopted uncle – if Thorin was not soon going to actually _ask_ their favourite scary, fussy, cuddly little hobbit he and Kili would just step up and claim him for themselves – anyone who could make those pastries needed to be snatched up and prevented from ever leaving one again – could be surprisingly resolute in his punishments. 

If only Bilbo could be persuaded to subject That Elf to some of them!

But no, Bilbo actually _liked_ Legolas.

And had even pulled Fili himself away once to scold him for _protecting_ Kili from the elf´s stupid smiles and pretence gentleness and what did he mean it wasn´t Fili´s business at all if they chose to kiss again?!

Fili had been about to hurl himself at Legolas; or at least drag Kili out of the room and demand to be told what, exactly, had happened in Mirkwood, only the hobbit had been quicker and dwarven ears were really not made for decisive and unrelenting pulling.

 _That_ had hurt.

And had been just the physical pain.

Kili was his little brother and it was his job to protect him and clearly Kili was too dumb to take care of himself because - 

Ugh.

Those dopey, sappy eyes.

Surely Kili couldn´t be interested in that elf.

Kili said he wasn´t interested in that elf.

Kili -

Well, he was Kili.

And Kili was - 

That elf better not hurt his baby brother.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Legolas, at least, is used to wearing a crown. And to _behaving_ like a prince.”

“Jus´ like I said. Boring.”

The smile that came with that pronouncement was as self-satisfied as it was inspiring Bilbo to bury his head in the tea pot. The only problem was that it was currently full of hot tea and too small even for a hobbit head. 

Robbed of this means of putting a swift end to his suffering, he merely patted the dwarf´s arm and nudged him towards the table, where some pastries and a mouthwatering plum pie were waiting on a tray.

“Well, if you wish it, I´m sure Legolas will be leased to discuss the finer points of heir-ship with you while we track up to the Mountain. Who knows, you might even find the time to take notes!”

Fili looked up from where he had been studying the still-warm cupcakes. Half-hidden under a cloth.

“Uncle´s told you when we´re off?”

The expectant, surprised tone left Bilbo a little flustered.

“Oh – I – well, no – you see -”

“We leave at dawn.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo stared.

“Stay behind? You are asking me to _stay behind_?”

The dwarf in the doorway stilled briefly, his head tilting very slightly; the grasp of one hand tightening on the frame. Then – in a tone that left no doubt as to any finality -

“You will be escorted back to the Shire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defence - and with the information that the angst cackled at me when I as much as looked at it in any hopeful, encouraging, we can do this way - I´d quite like to smack His Majesty on the back of his lovely, tiresome head, too. :)
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://heyerette.tumblr.com/), if you need me.


	15. It´s All About The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take a protective dwarf, a huffy hobbit, add some misunderstandings and stir until you reach the boiling point.

Kili´s mouth opened – only to close again at the barely there shake of a head he encountered on the opposite side of the table.

He huffed.

It was scary!

No-one should be made to witness that!

It was just not right.

Besides - 

“Scone, Kili?”

Right, that was it. 

He was not going to stand for it any longer.

No matter what any pointy-eared -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Mister Boggins!”

“Hm?”

Kili eyed the hobbit, who was smothering the scone with fresh, thick clotted cream with all the appearance of one applying himself to a form of art that required the slowest, most thorough, most dedicated attention.

“Are you quite alright?”

“Perfectly.” The hobbit lifted the baked confection to inspect it, turning it to one side, then to the other. Apparently, it was to his satisfaction. “Strawberry or blackcurrant?”

“What – I – uhm - either´s good. But really, Mr Bogg- “

“The strawberry will go better with your tea. Sugar?”

Kili whimpered; casting wide, imploring eyes around the table. Only to meet with lowered pairs that belonged to his fellow dwarves. And a delicately raised tea cup in the case of his old weapons master. Which almost disappeared into a thick beard.

Blackberry tea.

You´d never have thought Mister Dwalin would - 

Was no-one even going to _try_ to find out - 

Well, _he_ was not just going to let their hobbit suffer alone!

He was _their_ hobbit and he was great to cuddle and he and Fili did not even mind minding him – sometimes – and then there were those cupcakes they had been promised and the only person _not_ pretending to be anywhere else – or quite deaf and blind to what was going on – or not - was - 

“I´m going to court Legolas!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Wait!”

~ ~ ~ ~

It took two other attempts and some braid-pulling for the shouting and the threatening and the accusing to finally stop but Ori eventually _did_ get through to those members of the company who found themselves present at dinner and the hollering abruptly ceased, leaving the room eerily quiet.

The young scribe blushed.

But they should not all be looking at him; they should be looking at Mister Bilbo! 

Who was still sitting there, at the table, nibbling at a scone while preparing another and the amount of cream he was putting on it was positively – well, but his point was that Mister Bilbo was Sitting There. 

His eyes flew between the hobbit and his kin and he may have swallowed at all the attention concentrated on him but surely everyone must have noticed? At least Prince Legolas? Who had been the only one, except for Mister Bilbo, who had not taken to any shouting but had been staring at Kili in shock, at first, and then with such a look on his face as Ori found himself secretly hoping might be directed at him at some point in the future. Not by Prince Legolas, of course. And perhaps it would be wise if the one looking at him like that would not be an elf at all because Dori would be so disappointed and Nori would surely bring out his knives and - 

“Oi! Burglar! Shouldn´t ya be scolding?”

Oh bless Mahal, now Dori would surely have to approve of Mister Dwalin!

Not that he knew anything of anything, of course, and if he did know anything - or even something - well, he knew better than to tell _Dori_ of it, but it was certainly not brains that Mister Dwalin was missing and he even liked _tea_ and if Nori didn´t mind then - 

“I was thinking of what to plant in my garden, actually.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The door slammed shut.

“You will not plant a garden!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Of course not.” Bilbo calmly took another sip of his tea, sensing some of the tension that surrounded the dwarf melt away. “I already have a garden.” And it was back again. It was quite fascinating, really, how quickly - “I was merely thinking of growing a few more vegetables. Yellow tomatoes, I think. Brandywine yellows go quite nicely with stews, you know. And then some of the herbs Bombur promised to let me have seeds for. I do believe he means to send Bard´s boy to the market to procure them but I´ve been thinking of going myself, since I haven´t really had the opportunity to see much of it. Well, I can do that now! Hm.” The cup got raised again, the hobbit indulging in another appreciative sip. Slowly. Leisurely. Not-any-care-on-Middle Earth-ly. And then he drummed his fingers on the table, seemingly deep in thought. “Do you know, I think I´ll bring some of this tea for my stocks, too. Who knows when I´ll find myself this far west again – if ever.”

The silence that followed that pronouncement was such that one could have heard even the most subtle slurp. Not that Bilbo would ever lower himself to do anything so undignified – tea deserved much better, thank you, but - 

“You would break your promise.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The quiet rage in the King´s tone would have shaken the strongest dwarf.

Fortunately and the Green Lady be thanked, Bilbo was not a dwarf but a hobbit and, even more fortunately, a hobbit that had spent the past couple of hours trying to make head or tail of what had been thrown at him by that very dwarf and had, very, _very_ fortunately, come to the conclusion that the dwarf was a -

Cloth-head.

And at that present moment it did not matter at all that that dwarf was his very own cloth-head because his very own cloth-head had attempted to not only pull rank on him – really, as if a hobbit would be prone to recognising any of that silly kingliness authority (Publicly. Privately Bilbo had been considering Thorin Oakenshield the very epitome of kingliness and quite _liked_ it when the dwarf went all kingly and majestic and regal and yes, well … he was not nearly enamoured enough to ever mention any of that to the King. Fine. But really not _silly_ enough.) - but to also make decisions on his behalf that were as unnecessary as they were insulting.

He had got them out of _Mirkwood_.

Had faced _trolls_.

Had thrown himself between his idiotic suitor and _Azog_.

And endured all aggravating, hair-raising absurdities the that came with being subjected to the company of thirteen dwarves for months on end. 

Especially their _leader´s_.

Which were the absolute _worst._

But no, he was apparently not fit to deal with a dragon.

Not that he wanted to deal with a dragon, really, only now he _wanted_ to deal with a dragon and if Mister King under the Mountain of Presumption thought he could stop him from dealing with a dragon when he wanted to deal with a dragon then he would be very willing to practise his dragon-dealing-skills on the dwarf and see if the dwarf would like it!

Especially once he took to poking at his skin with Sting.

Really.

He was going to have words with the dwarf about all that Return to the Shire Business. Many, _many_ words.

Once he had had some tea.

And scones.

And then some more tea.

And possibly more scones.

And he was not going to apologise for any increased sugar intake when it would help him survive the utter block-headedness that seemed to be especially persistent in the Line of Durin!

It would serve the dwarf right if he should find himself saddled with a Consort that was wider than he was tall. 

Only the blasted dwarf would probably take to rolling him around that blasted mountain of his if he couldn´t keep up with all the stomping.

Shoes.

Boots!

Loathsome things.

And he was not at all _huffy_ , thank you very much!

And he would quite like his tea now.

And the scone.

And he might even hit a certain someone with one, if he felt like it.

Well, perhaps not.

A piece of shortbread would be much more effective.

And _that_ should really drive his point home, given how much the dwarf _liked_ them.

~ ~ ~ ~

When his cloth-head of a dwarf finally made his appearance in their room the hobbit had been nearly awash with tea. Or as much as a hobbit who was very fond of his tea could be. If it had been a barrel of ale he had been seeking solace in…

Yes, well.

Good thing his dwarves had not entirely corrupted him.

Yet.

Oh, but that dwarf was going to suffer.

Because this hobbit was now not only a mildly angry and agitated hobbit; this hobbit was now a _cranky_ hobbit.

A _cranky_ hobbit who much preferred to take care of his reasoning and his de-bullheading and his - well, sometimes it was necessary, thank you – shouting At Once rather than finding himself sitting there, for hours, waiting for the reason for his accumulating crankiness to make an appearance so that he could tweak his over-large nose and pull his stupidly round ear and, if driven to complete and utter unrespectability, yank _both_ of his braids – hard – while His Majesty had been out, well, cozying up to that nasty, slimy, inducing one´s skin to crawl-y Master of the Town when he should be standing in front of his so called intended and patiently endure his so called intended´s scoldings and have his idiotic dwarven head cleared of some of the rocks that clearly had made themselves at home in the same and kindly rearrange their plans for the next dawn in such a manner that there would be a lot more Proper Time Of The Day in it than anything First Light or Before Breakfast, thank you very much!

And once they had settled all these matters and he had taken care of the small, negligible detail of a live dragon which apparently he was not to be trusted to deal with while having been hired to very much deal with the same (he considered stealing from a dragon dealing with a dragon. It was all in the overall scheme of things, wasn´t it? Yes. That. And really, if anyone wanted to take to any nitpicking and insist that _dealing_ somewhat implied permanency in that particular case well, it might very well end up being permanent. For one of them. One way of the other. So – so … _there_.) he was going to plant a garden in the Mountain and that – that - _moronic_ dwarf was going to very much assist him!

And if His Majesty kept grouching he would find himself marching back straight to the Shire once all that throne and mountain retaking business would be all over and done with to pick up those seeds and plants Bilbo thought would grow at least somewhat nicely in a stone-infested climate. And His Majesty would then get to ponder the joys of leaving the kinging business to his nephews and would that not make the obnoxious dwarf quake in his boots! And Balin would _not_ be helping the boys! (Maybe his long suffering, entirely put out, clearly demented hobbit would even join him to ascertain that the dwarf actually slept on the road and – and ate a proper meal at least once a day. Maybe. Possibly. Ugh. Really. Whatever were the Valar thinking to settle him with such a – he would have to clean that coat, too, before sending him off because -)

Bilbo took another sip of his tea.

Really.

And then His Majesty finally sees fit to favour him with his presence only to storm into the room like a thundercloud; nearly slamming the door out of its poor hinges, and telling him he was not to plant a garden – which clearly showed he still knew very little of hobbits in general and of this very particular hobbit in particular and Bilbo was fast reconsidering his decision of treating that big, heavy fur-coat to anything that would make it presentable again and moreover – _wait._

“ _What_ have you done now, you stupid dwarf?”

~ ~ ~ ~

It hurt.

And he was not even going to think of the state of his hand.

But for Bilbo to plan – to openly speak – of his plans for his return to the Shire -

A garden.

If his Heart, his Consort, his One intended to sink his soft, small hands into any dirt and overtax his little knees he was going to do it in Erebor where Thorin was going to not only have one of the rare light-flooded halls high up in the royal quarters cleared and scrubbed and made presentable and _safe_ in every possible way (could he get away with having guards positioned at its entrance whenever his weed-pulling-enthusiastic hobbit … He was _King_. And two guards. At the least.) but where he would also be near enough for Thorin to drag him away from his plants and tomatoes (what his little One´s fascination with that vegetable – _It´s a fruit, Thorin._ \- was was a matter entirely beyond his comprehension but he supposed it could be worse. He would firmly put his foot down with that green nuisance hobbits referred to as _broccoli_. No _broccoli_ of any kind would come within smelling distance of his Mountain. And no adorable hobbit-pout would inspire him to change his mind! - and to enable him to bury his nose in the crook of his delectable neck and nose those lovely curls after his Council had once again driven him to distraction. He felt quite certain that this would be a regular occurrence.

(And even if it should not be, he would be allowed to pretend it was so.)

None of that would be possible if any gardening plans should come to fruitition in the rolling hills of the Shire.

How could Bilbo think - 

How _dare_ Bilbo think -

They had _agreed_ it would be wisest for their burglar to return to the Shire.

They had _spoken_ of arranging his passage across the Lake and - 

In truth, Thorin had been surprised at the little opposition he had met with. Clearly their burglar had had his doubts as well as to the wisdom in his engaging the beast in any way. Thorin had long taken pride in his One´s cleverness and astuteness. Yes. That was it. Had been it. And that nagging little voice in his head that kept suggesting to him that he had not provided his hobbit with any room for debate – negotiation – protest – by claiming a a matter of business to demand his immediate attention and practically fleeing the kitchen – and his gaping hobbit behind – lest he forgot all his noble intentions and seized him by his ridiculous braces and kissed him within an inch of his life and forgot about his quest, his legacy, his duty -

Nagging voice or not – for Bilbo to consider their relationship at an end - 

He knew – he must know! - that Thorin would be sending for him once they had retaken the Mountain and Erebor had become habitable again! Surely it needed no words for him to understand why Thorin had made his decision. 

But his own kin had informed him of their hobbit´s plans for a garden in Bag End.

Bilbo would not even think of a garden if he did not - 

His hand still hurt.

Pulsed.

A little.

It would be bruised for some days.

Balin would roll his eyes.

Dwalin would – cackle.

At least the bleeding had stopped.

The King snorted.

Trust Men to use inferior material in the construction of their homes.

That wall had clearly long been in need of additional padding.

Stone should have been used.

Stone did not … splinter.

And if Men had the common sense to use _stone_ in the creation of their doors then they would not almost take off their hinges when a dwarf shut them behind him.

Tea cups, on the other hand, would probably always take to clattering.

Tea.

_Tea._

Thorin eyed the cup in his One´s hand with loathing.

It was enough that he was apparently contesting against an accumulation of books (he would send the youngest Ri in search of the library the moment they had rid Erebor of Smaug!) and a decidedly ugly armchair, if memory served, and now...

Tea.

Probably of that deplorable fruit variety that his oldest friend had developed such a strange partiality for. 

Fundin would have disinherited his younger son.

And the -

The dwarf clenched his injured fist, grinding his teeth at the stab of pain that shot through it.

There would be no Mahal-forsaken -

“You will not plant a garden!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Oh sit down, you daft lump.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“You punched the wall.”

“Hm.”

“There is now a hole in it.”

“Hm.”

“You´re not even sorry.”

“Hm.”

“You´re going to apologise.”

“Hm.”

“And then throw a betrothal party for Kili.”

“Hm.”

“And Legolas.”

“Hm.”

“You will visit them in Mirkwood, of course.”

“Hm.”

“While sharing elvish wine with Thranduil.”

“Hm.”

A hand came up to possess itself of a bearded chin, turning it so that impossibly blue eyes were forced to meet a reluctantly fond and exasperated gaze. “Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

His hand wrapped up in a bandage, the King under the Mountain met the glare he had been constrained to face with a scowl.

No, he had not been paying attention to his One´s ramblings but he refused to take any blame for his inattention – first he had been manhandled into a chair, then his hand had been subjected to unnecessary – fine, sensible and as gentle as possible – cleansing and then he had found himself distracted by the nearness of those curls and that soft form and that scent that was all - 

He had had no notion that the hobbit could be this cruel.

To open declare their courtship – their _relationship_! - at an end...

The love of hobbits apparently more fickle than their race liked to profess.

Thorin had had his heart broken before; the loss of his family, his home, his birthright - 

_No._

Bilbo loved him.

He was _sure_ of it.

He was just – piqued.

Upset.

Angry.

Maybe he had broken one of those entirely befuddling Hobbit Rules that left a King completely mystified and out of his depth – usually?

Surely he had not failed in their courtship – 

Although that flower crown he had presented Bilbo with -

His burglar had _seemed_ to have liked it.

Or so the sudden mass of beaming and clingy and thoroughly amorous hobbit in his lap had suggested at the time.

But that was then and the hobbit before him had not even made an attempt at clinginess or anything even more welcome upon his entrance; especially considering that this would be their last night for an impossibly long time to come; but had spoken of his plans for his garden in the Shire and his wish to explore various parts of Middle Earth which he _did not think he´d ever return to_ when he must know that he would be sent for to travel home – to Erebor – as soon as possible. And that being separated from him for however many months it might take would quite possibly kill its King.

Bilbo did know that.

He _had_ to know that.

 _Must_ know that.

It was nearly insulting that the hobbit presumed to - 

“I can see the wheels turning in your head. Your Majesty. And stop sulking.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin sat up straight, thin lips pursed.

“I do not _sulk_.”

Something that sounded distinctly like a snort could be heard in the _not_ -sulking king´s vicinity but before he could further and emphasise his protestations at the insufferable notion he found himself - 

“No, of course not! Mister King under the Mountain of All that is High-Handed and Overbearing and – and _Insulting!_ \- does not take to anything so unkingly as _sulking_. He also -” The small shoulders suddenly slumped, having supported the attached arms in their dedicated flailing. Bilbo sighed, running a hand through his unruly curls. “Just tell me, Thorin. How can you still have so little faith in me?”

The dwarf king, taken aback by his One´s sudden ferocity and finding himself facing a glaring, huffing hobbit who waved his arms about and was tapping a speakingly annoyed foot on the wooden floor at one moment and an exhausted, almost deflated, clearly pained Shireling at the next, reacted with the to be expected, monosyllabic confusion.

“Pardon?”

Which earned him a rather expressive dirty look.

Which really did not assist him with the unravelling of the mystery.

When had he ever - 

There was no-one he had more faith in than Bilbo Baggins! No-one he trusted more in this life! It was preposterous of Bilbo to accuse him of being so uncertain in the choice of his heart – 

He could feel that spot between his eyes that was usually reserved for his sister-sons to torment begin to throb.

Such - 

“I did not think to spend our last night together in absurdity.”

There was a sudden moment of silence. Then - 

“I´m sorry? Did I agree to spend the night with you?”

Thorin froze, his gaze fixed on the unrepentant hobbit who had just -

He drew himself up to his full kingly height. 

“You would so easily dismiss me?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Dis-

Now, _hang_ on -

That - 

That - 

Now really!

Of all the odious, idiotic, _insufferable_ \- 

“Excuse me, Master Dwarf, but is it not _YOU_ who insists on ridding himself of _ME_?”

“It is not I who seeks to terminate our relationship, _Master Hobbit_.

Oh, he was going to cuff that dwarf.

And definitely, certainly, most assuredly _not_ kiss him. 

Or any such ill-timed endeavour.

No matter how terribly attractive His Majesty was in his horrible haughtiness.

And senility.

Because the dwarf could only have fallen victim to early senility if he had forgotten that he had ordered this hobbit to return to the Shire to wait out that whole dragon-dealing business in the comfort and utter ennui of his lovely little hobbit hole.

Well, if His Majesty needed a reminder this hobbit would be only too happy to be at his service!

Bilbo crossed the remaining distance between them – which really wasn´t all that much of a distance at all as both hobbit and dwarf had gravitated towards each other during their exchange and found themselves almost nose to nose, as it were – and those incredible eyes would likely always be nearly the death of him... confounded dwarf! - and put out a finger.

Hm.

Still all solid and hard.

Good.

It would not do for the dwarf to become all soft and squishable in his dotage. 

Or at least not in public.

Oh.

Dismissing.

Yes.

Quite.

That.

So.

The still-very-firm-and-somewhat-heavily-heaving-chest was subjected to a poke.

“I am _not_ going back to the Shire, Thorin. And if you think you can make me or plan to have me dragged over those dratted Misty Mountains again -and I am most certainly _not_ enamoured by the idea of trying my luck _under_ them once more either, thank you! - or that you can just lock me in and throw the key into that nasty, big Lake around us I will tell Your Majesty now that I will escape my _escort_ at the very first opportunity or climb through that window if forced to do anything so un-hobbitlike but I will not stay behind and wait for the news of you and the boys and the rest of my entirely suicidal _family_ having been flambéed at the hands – paws – claws – scales – wings – _ugh!_ – of a dragon because they did not have the common sense to use stealth and – and patience! Or – or courage! Or is it just hobbits you think completely devoid of any courage? Because quite honestly, Thorin, I find it really quite terribly insulting of you to not trust me to -”

_“I need you safe!”_

~ ~ ~ ~

As far as eloquence went, it probably had not been one of his best offerings, yes. But he did flatter himself that he must have brought his point somewhat across still because that goaded, shouted, heart-wrenching admission that had interrupted his lovely little scolding session had been quite -

“You _stupid_ dwarf!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“I cannot lose you, Bilbo. Do not make me _lose you!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Would you ask it of Fili and Kili?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo had been carding his fingers through the thick, silver-streaked mane; the tension in himself slowly dissolving as he began to make sense of the entire, silly muddle.

Not cowardice.

Fear.

Very real, very lively, very honest - 

Fear.

He wanted to smack that clot of a dwarf.

But not as much as he wanted to tackle him and mould himself into his safe, solid form and hold onto him and kiss every inch of his hairy body because - 

He _had_ to end up with the most idiotically noble, chivalrous, stubbornly set in his ways-dwarf alive.

And then the silly oaf had grouchingly admitted that he had been pondering the wisdom of allowing his sister-sons to come as far as well and had had nearly made up his mind to send them back with Bilbo under the disguise of being his guard.

Bilbo had pulled one braid then.

Hard.

It was not that he _wasn´t_ afraid.

Of course he was afraid.

It was not that he sought out dragons as a Sterday afternoon entertainment. Before tea. Horrible notion.

But he was their burglar and he had signed a contract and they would have had to employ quite a different hobbit if they thought that he could just sit quietly anywhere while his friends – his _family_ \- his grumpy, grouchy, glowering, scowling, stubborn, wonderful bullhead of a dwarven intended were possibly in danger. 

He could not bear that and while it had taken a great many minutes and an even greater amount of patience Thorin understood. (Even if the whole garden business had ended in the unruffling of quite a few ruffled feathers. How anyone could have missed his very lovely, very substanial garden that surrounded Bag End was somewhat of a mystery to him but he was quite happy to live with the excuse that was that His Majesty had been thoroughly distracted by quite a different kind of Shire beauty. Romantic sap.)

Had gently lowered his forehead against the hobbit´s, breathing deeply.

He feared for Thorin as much as Thorin feared for him.

And that was all that was to it.

That was love.

And they would meet whatever their fate should be together.

Not that he had any intention of letting his dwarves do anything overly stupid, of course, but his cloth-headed love did not currently need to know that. He would keep them in line. If he had to. Somehow.

And if he had to glare at them and shout at them and – and do some more poking – he would even threaten to shave off their beards and melt all their beads if that should make them behave!

Or mention the possibility of moving to Rivendell.

That should work on Thorin, at least.

Possibly on Dwalin as well.

Hm.

He´d have to think about it.

For now - 

He was owed a kiss.

Quite a number of kisses, actually.

And he was going to collect them because really, all that stress did not do an old hobbit any favours!

Bilbo leaned in, his hand wandering down until it settled at the dwarf king´s nape, gently scratching the dark curls and drawing quite lovely sounds from his silly, overprotective love. 

His mouth was nearly brushing against thin, chapped lips when - 

“ _Court Legolas?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life, lovely people. It´s not even an excuse. Real life, a broken laptop, and other horribly time consuming, inspiration-stealing things. Like looking for a new job after nearly 12 years in one and health issues. But finally. :)
> 
> This accumulation of fluffy silliness is dedicated to you, [bubbysbub](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/pseuds/bubbysbub.htm). Because I´m afraid I need to eat all that plum cheesecake on my own. ;) <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters and shamelessly rearrange the wonderful work of Mr Tolkien and Mr Jackson for my own fictional purposes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Court of Gold and Green](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479613) by [Chamelaucium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamelaucium/pseuds/Chamelaucium)




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